


Of Legends and Fire

by Spacewhalewriting



Series: Of Legends and Fire [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Asshole Thranduil, Dragons, Emotionally Constipated Thorin, F/M, like more dragons than should very well fit, what if lord of the rings had witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-08-25 01:44:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 29,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16651921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spacewhalewriting/pseuds/Spacewhalewriting
Summary: TLDR: Silwen gets drunk and makes out with people but not Thorin





	1. The Beginning

Chapter 1

 

 

“The world is not in your books and maps.”

 

Silwen had considered this a funny statement for it was Gandalf who had often been the carrier of a new tome to her little cottage doorstep. In a way she was frightened, but it was a buzzing, excited kind of fright; once, when she was what could have been called a child, she’d dared climb to the very top of a ruined tower in the very edge of Annúminas and looked over the lake. Something had beckoned her to the very edge of that crumbling stone and even as every step felt like swift, tumbling death, it had livened her. Once she’d climbed so very carefully back down, taking almost twice the cautious time going down than she had up, she had never elected to try it again. That morning however, she locked the door behind her and slipped the key around her neck, stepping directly out onto the roadway and taking a deep breath. It’s now or never. Fingers digging into the leather straps of her pack, she set off into the misty morning at a brisk pace. They were to meet in Hobbiton; it was a little more than a few days easy journey from her cottage, but the faster she walked the less likely she felt she would turn back to the comfort of the familiar.

She was a small creature and wholly unremarkable, a sturdy young woman with thick dark hair that grew frizzy and untameable from her scalp and dark, sober eyes. A small but hefty pouch in her pack contained all the coins she had in the world; she carried no weapons but her hands and a walking staff that was little more than an oak branch. Other than these things, she left everything precious behind her. Her cottage and the things she had made for herself there. Many ago the dwelling had belonged to a strange old woman, but no more. As it faded into the mist behind her, Silwen did not wonder when she would see her home again, but what lay ahead. For six hundred years she had lived on the outskirts of a small town under the shadow of the ruins of Annúminas, for six hundred years she had traded her skills to the villagers that came to her as they had come to the old woman. They came seeking every remedy and poison- the binding of a broken bone, a charm to make a lover remain faithful. They whispered about the girl who lived in the cottage as if a spirit, but they came nonetheless.

The enormity of the task presented to her by Gandalf had perhaps gone naively past her understanding, but the reward of the journey that lay ahead of her had captured her interest far more than any fear she had of the unknown.

 

_______________________________________

 

It took only hours for her to reach unfamiliar country, but with her maps she reached Hobbiton well on time for a morning market. She stopped at one of many stalls selling fresh produce and bought a few apples for a coin, biting immediately into one and stowing the others in her pack with the other hand. A small gaggle of children ran around her so closely that if she had elected to wear her normal skirts instead of traveling trousers, they would have become entangled. Still, stepping back to let a few by, she inadvertently backed into another and knocked the small thing to the ground. The small hobbit child took a single look at scratched palms and immediately his chin began to wobble. She hesitated for a second, considering the child’s distress as if it were something damp that she wouldn’t like to touch, and then made herself dig back into her waist pouch for a chip of amethyst crystal.

“Come now littlest one, don’t cry. Give me your hands.” She said, crouching down to his level. Shyly scrubbing at his face, the little one did and she gave over what she was hiding, opening her hands over the child’s to reveal the shard unfolding fragmented wings. His eyes went wide with amazement, his mouth making a very small but perfectly formed “o” as it fluttered in place there as a crystalline butterfly, its wings making delicate tinkling sounds. “Would you like to keep it?” She asked him. He nodded vigorously. “I’m looking for a master Bilbo Baggins. Do you know where he lives?” The child had to try a few times before he could get anything out but she waited patiently for him to rush through a jumbled, child-speak version of what could be directions. It was good enough and would have to do, so she let him run on, carrying his new treasure.

With these directions she did not arrive until nightfall. It was a hobbit hole overlooking the valley with a little bound twig bench out front and perfectly round green door. As she approached she could hear a hum underneath the night crickets and soft swish of grass in the night breeze. The door was ajar and as she neared she could hear the drone of a dozen male voices together singing.

_Far over the Misty Mountains cold_   
_To dungeons deep and caverns old_   
_We must away, ere break of day_   
_To find our long forgotten gold...._

  
It was enchanting in a way that she couldn’t describe; the way they sang touched something inside her and pulled as if by a chain, leading her inside and down to the flickering light at the end of the rounded hallway. Inside a fire warmed den there she came across the company Gandalf had described to her, thirteen dwarves and a hobbit that she could only assume was the owner of the home she intruded upon. Gandalf sat at the doorway, distracted eyes softening to acknowledge her over the gentle puffs of his pipe. Normally she would be ecstatic to see her old friend, but the dwarves song had woven a kind of spell over her that couldn’t be broken as long as their voices wrapped around her. It spoke to her of long lost desires and ancient lines unbroken, of once great kingdoms and longings that she knew little of and others she knew deeply. It spoke to her of gold.

It was within this enchantment that she first saw the leader of their company. He stood at the mantle, hulking in his furs and traveling cloak, but she did not see his face until he turned. Silwen could not help that she stood out in the company, and as the song had faded, he turned eyes upon her. When he did, the firelight caught his face in a smoldering glow- it highlighted his serious brow and the strength of his nose, his mouth an unforgiving line set with determination. His eyes, however, glowed in the firelight with the same enchantment that had taken her, an enchantment of memories and strength of desires. This was the first she saw of Thorin Oakensheild, King under the mountain. To her surprise he acknowledged her not with any greeting, but a curt dismissal directed to Gandalf instead.

“Very well that you insist on bringing our burglar along, but what right has this woman in our company?” Asked Thorin. Traveling over the last few days she had come into contact with more than ever in her life, but this was the first point that more than one or two pairs of eyes had been upon her at the same time and it was very uncomfortable. She had no introduction to these strangers and no weapons at her disposal and so took this silently, flushing. Patiently, Gandalf came to the defense of his decision.

“I cannot be with you all of the way, and there are some things that are better sorted with magic.” He said. The dwarves erupted into chaos.

“What!” and “How are we to face a dragon without a wizard?” and other such things came from the dwarves, a clamor rising again quickly. Silwen stood with them, trying to get someone’s attention- any of them.

“Excuse me....!” There was no response from the company, tangled in their arguing. She gathered her courage and tried a little louder. “E-excuse me.” Shouts still. Overrun and having no previous experience to guide her, she struggled helplessly for a moment- she wanted to grab the tin cup before her and bang it on the table. While she couldn’t bring herself to make a fuss about it, she loathed being so easily trod on. But he was right in what he was implying- she knew nothing of weapons, but that was not her purpose there. What she knew of the world she knew from books and drawings, but she knew she wasn’t helpless or useless. As she pressed the disappointment and anger down, her hands clenched into fists. As she tried to suppress her temper the little merrily crackling fire in the fireplace flared, the little flames in every lamp and lantern in the house jumping.

“EXCUSE ME.”

 Sudden silence.

“Master Baggins has fainted again”

“I know I am a stranger in your midst, and you are also strangers to me, but what bearing does that have on an impossible quest? I may be no more than a woods-witch, but from what Gandalf has told me you seek to reclaim a mountain with a company of little more than a dozen dwarves. No more than tinkers and toymakers yourselves. He has asked me to cook and heal and assist when he cannot- do I ask any favors of you in doing that? Do any of you know how to heal a burn from dragon’s fire?” She had been propelled onward by the force of her anger at having a helping hand batted away, but she was beginning to lose her courage. Between the gazes of king and witch ice met fire and inexperienced, the fire was beginning to be quenched. She wavered, lowering her gaze in a way that she hoped appeared humble. “My skills are at your disposal.”

“Very well.”

_____________________________________________

 

They set out the next morning at first without their burglar. Though Silwen had walked to Hobbiton, the journey ahead was much farther than would be best on foot. She was not much taller than the dwarves and fit quite neatly on a pony. Though her shyness wanted her to observe the company without interacting, she rode close to Balin for much of that day, for he had old, kind eyes and a polite manner, but found herself also taking pleasure in watching the carryings on of the much younger, less refined brothers Kili and Fili. Human men she avoided, for between her reputation and their nature, there was distrust on either side; but most dwarves she found to be staunch and earnest enough.

Over the next few days she got to better know her companions. Balin was the eldest of the company and nothing if not the wizened diplomat. Tough and tattooed, Dwalin she had expected to carry the same cold demeanor of the king, but he could be as gently spoken as his brother Balin. Oin and Gloin were another pair of brothers and her companions at the campfire pot; Oin preferred more spice in the stew and Gloin did not, so while they argued she made the meal as she wished and served it and they ended up liking it just the same. There were no complaints at the fire every morning and night. There was Ori, the scribe and artist of the group, Dori, who was arguably the strongest of the company and an eternal pessimist, and Nori, a musician who along with Bilbo kept quite close to the campfire and food. Kili and Fili were Thorin’s nephews and quite quick witted and handsome; they shared their uncle’s looks but little of his coldness. Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur were not Durinsfolk like the rest but made a merry gathering all the same; Silwen suspected that their motives for being on the quest were not dissimilar to her own. And Bilbo, strange out of place little hobbit, was somewhat jumpy but never did she doubt Gandalf’s faith in their burglar. If he was there it was for a purpose. Thorin she did not speak to unless spoken to and she tried not to appreciate any trait of his, as he seemed to take no effort to recognize any of hers.

Instead she was distracted greatly by the sights of the trip. Her pack was heavier than necessary- she hadn’t taken many, only one or two, but she spent much time with a book open in her lap, pointing at things she’d only seen before on pages and sharing her knowledge with any who would listen.

Gandalf was at the head of the company, but she kept her maps close at hand, noting how slowly they seemed to traverse the landscape; the world was much bigger than she had at first thought.

_____________________________________

 

One morning they woke and Gandalf was gone. As they packed the camp, Silwen tightened a strap on her pony’s saddle. Already mounted, Thorin spoke to her in passing, his eyes dark and serious above her like a hawk.

“Let us hope that you will not have to prove your usefulness.” He said. She mounted her own pony and kicked a little to make it break into a short trot, getting a little ahead of him.

“Yes, let us hope.” She said, biting her tongue for the rest lest anything else she could say put her even deeper in his disfavor. She had decided that even though the dwarves of the company were nothing but holdfastly loyal, she immensely disliked his manner towards her; herself, Silwen had never held a loyalty other than her love for the old mother who had raised her; that ephemeral life who had started hers, and of course, Gandalf. But nothing to the effect of the love the dwarves had for their king. Her deepest passion was for all that glittered, particularly things that shone like starlight.

The road was open and bright and the traveling quite safe so as they went sometimes the dwarves would break into traveling song. At first she stayed silent and observed her newfound companions, but as night drew in and they set camp, her courage had been bolstered.

“Come lass, sing with us!” Bombur encouraged. She knew the common tongue of course, and elvish, though her only practice partner had been Gandalf and her tongue handled the words far carefully- and one other language that she dare not speak in front of any company expect that of herself, but of Dwarvish she knew nothing. It was pleasant in her ears, but rough in her own mouth. Knelt at the fire, she tried to imitate the sounds as she stirred the pot, but stumbled mightily. Laughter followed and she chastised Bombur with ladle in hand and a smile on her face.

“Could you do any better in a language you don’t know?” She asked, and was met with an answer quickly.

“Then sing us a song of yours.” A chorus of encouraging “aye!”s came and she flustered, picking a verse at random that she knew she would remember all the way through. The night grew quiet and the song of crickets gave her her chorus. It was rusty at first, but as her voice warmed to the air it rang out soft and clear.

_All that is gold does not glitter,_

_Not all those who wander are lost;_

_The old that is strong does not wither,_

_Deep roots are not reached by the frost._

The lyrics began a passing fancy, but as she searched for words she found Thorin’s eyes over the fire and once again they seemed to catch the light in the same way as when she first saw him in Bilbo’s sitting room.

_From the ashes a fire shall be woken,_

_A light from the shadows shall spring;_

Over the days she’d spoken at great length with the others about the quest and its ramifications; she knew that Thorin had reason to be stern, and for a moment she saw inside him. To him the _completion of this quest and the well being of his kin was the mounting of his very worth as a dwarf and as a leader._

_Renewed shall be blades that were broken,_

_The crownless again shall be king._

As the last notes faded away there was a moment in which there was no noise but the night; crickets and wind and the crackle of the fire.

Kili and Ori called nay, and for another, but she refused, saying that she’d rather eat than sing them to sleep like a mother.Thorin had not come to the fire, preoccupied with his maps and own thoughts, so she brought him his bowl as she would for the lads safekeeping the ponies away from the fire. 

“Do you mean to bewitch us or feed us, mistress witch?” Thorin asked, accepting the food. She did not know how to respond to this, for it was not an accusation. Often she would weave spells into her voice to soothe the ill or dying, but tonight she sang only for the mood of the camp. His expression was stern as it often was, but not reprimanding, and she did not understand what he meant by this and so answered in her own way.

“Only to feed you, Master Oakenshield. You’ll not find yourself unwillingly under any enchantment made by my hands.” She said, their gazes locking for a moment before she turned away. The spring chill in her heart did not regret that men feared the woods-witch of Annúminas, but Thorin Oakenshield was no man.


	2. Merry Meet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TLDR: Silwen gets drunk and makes out with people but not Thorin

Several nights later they came across an inn without a town, a place where rangers and travelers and all manner folk came to rest on the road- as they did. But first, they feasted.

In almost six hundred years she had never partaken ale in merry fashion, nor more than a mug to ward off the cold of winter; tonight she was swept up in the revelry inside the inn and drank to keep up with the mighty appetites of the dwarves. Having kept herself mainly in isolation she had never danced with anyone besides herself, but the ale loosened her hair and then her feet and soon she found herself dancing with whomever perchance asked. The ale was in her head and it went straight to her heart, giving it wings.

The dwarves laughed loudly with her when she took both Kili and Bilbo by the hand, having them dance both with her and then with each other as she accepted the hand of a tall, handsome man of perhaps forty. She danced with him as she freely as she had the rest, unaware the she was becoming lost in the crowd.

__________________________

Kissing. Oh. Was this kissing? It was messy and clumsy- in all the ages she couldn’t remember kissing before, no one wanted to kiss the witch- but it felt so good. She felt like she was at once on fire, her body present, but also in a haze, her mind not quite in control. She realized that she did not know who she was kissing and that their hands were attempting to undo her clothes and she pulled away. Another thing that had never happened before. This, she shied from.

“Slow down-” She managed to gasp, but his hands did not slow- neither did the spinning of her head. There was a gap in her memory; she did not know how she had gotten outside the inn. “Please, wait.” She attempted to push him and squirm away, but found herself rather weak in his arms. In the dark the only source of light was that coming from the windows of the inn. He laughed and the way the lantern glow hit his face she realized that he looked somewhat familiar, though she could not place who he looked like.

“You were begging for it a moment ago.” He said, and returned to unlacing the collar of her loose tunic, holding her close with an arm around her waist and cupping her breast with his other hand. This she hissed, recoiling that he touched her after she had told him not to.

“I changed- hic- my mind! Release me.” She said, trying and failing to step away. He held her tighter even, his beard scratching at her neck as his lips strove to make marks there. Anger was the first contender in her mind, outraged that a man would dare defy that request- but slowly creeping in was fear. Fear had protected her well over the years, but she was in a strange place with no local myth, no legend that kept the men and boys from her cottage. Now she was the one who feared. She had never felt small. She was not small. The anger that had been a tight little blossom in her chest bloomed suddenly.

__________________________________

 

The others were still inside the inn, but Thorin felt the atmosphere too jovial for his current mood. He needed silence and the night air. He slept out of doors more often than not, so being inside a building tonight felt confining. Of course, he knew that one was missing from the party- their witch- who had disappeared quite excitedly with a tall bearded man in tow, but he knew not where she’d gone with him. Part of him tried to assert that it was none of his concern who she chose to consort with, but another larger part cared very much who could interfere with the company’s journey. In this, he was at war within himself. It was all very well and good that she did as she liked, as long as it did not affect the journey in any way. The cool air did these thoughts good, Thorin taking a deep inhale and letting it try to wash them away. He had hardly walked around to the side of the inn when he saw two dark shapes cast against the lantern light coming from the windows. From the sound of the voices, the girl was certainly their witch.

Thinking about the two of them- the girl with a man and his hands on her, the both of them gripped in lust- that was too private of a matter for him to want to step into and certainly none of Thorin’s concern. Had he not heard her utter a confused plea he would have left the couple to their activities, but the sound of Silwen’s voice obviously conveyed distress even at the distance he stood from. The shape of the man in the dark was much larger than she and Thorin knew that she had drank to keep up with the dwarves that night- however just as Thorin found himself rushing to her aid, the man withdrew with a shout of pain, knocked backwards by a burst of pure white light and a gust of wind.

“Sorceress! Foul thing!” The man cursed her, scrambling backwards in fear and rage.

Unsupported, she dropped back against the wall and stared down at the man with empty, unforgiving eyes, seemingly unaware of Thorin’s new presence. She raised her hands and the man was jerked to his feet by some invisible force greater than him, hovering a foot or two off the ground and clutching at his throat; holding him there with one clawed hand, she pulled the other back slowly and Thorin felt some sense that her perceived innocence would be soiled by what the drink and fear was about to make her do. The dwarf king raised the blunt end of his ax and sent the stave smashing into her temple- a swift strike from the dark that made her stumble but not fall. He had not struck to kill or seriously harm, only release her grip- he spoke quickly to the man.

“If you want to live, run.”

The man did, stumbling in his haste and disappearing into the dark.

“Silwen,” Thorin said, “Are you alright?”

She was probing gently at the bruise on her temple but at the sound of her name her head snapped up and she snarled, cheeks flushed and eyes glittering, hands raised once more- but stopped when she saw him, swaying on the spot. Ponderously, she stared at him, head lolling drunkenly; she began to slide down the wall but Thorin caught her before she could hit the ground in an undignified heap. In the few weeks that they had been traveling he never would have expected this of her- not the restrained, the academic- and yet she was a mess. From the burns on the man’s hands Thorin had somehow expected her to be too hot to touch- limp in his arms, under his fingers her skin did burn, but only like the skin of a person under the spell of a fever. The laces of her tunic were half undone, leaving the collar of her loose shirt to hang over one shoulder, the shadow of her breast visible in the lantern light. Unrestrained, uninhibited; had she been herself she likely would have been shamed, but only because it was him. The others she got along with marvelously, a bit of traveling sunshine. But with him she was cold, ever guarded.

Somehow this version of Silwen that he had never seen hearkened to a part of his heart that once had been young. She was conscious but heavily drunk. He couldn’t just leave her out here- her head lolled into his chest as he lifted her with ease, carrying her back into the inn. As he carried her back inside, her fingers dug a little into his coat, too inebriated to say anything about her situation; had she been sober, there would likely have been at least some protest, but when he laid her out on the bed he had intended on sleeping in there was nothing but a little groan of discomfort. A hand went up to her temple, probing once more at a little smear of blood and the likely throbbing there.

“Who hit me?” She mumbled, her words slurred. He considered that perhaps he had hit her too hard; however, she hadn’t used more than household magic for the company thus far and he had no way of gauging if that man would have made it til morning had she been left to her own devices. The least he could do was tend to the wound that he had created. He poured water into the washbasin on the bedside table and sitting in the room’s only chair, began to soak a little of the washcloth into it. It was cold but it would do.

“Where did you learn your magic, Silwen?” He asked. He wiped at the wound on her brow and she winced. Since he could remember, his hands had held weapons, and for what felt like a lifetime, the tools of a smith. They were not gentle hands. As he had wandered, cast from Erebor, he had met wise women who were daughters of men, but no sorceress who could cast such as Silwen. She heaved a sigh, eyes fluttering. Such long, dark lashes.

“Gandalf and books...and..I had a mother, once...An age ago.” She mused, her eyes dreamy and unfocused. Soft like this, unguarded, they were dark, shaded wells. Inviting, frequented by no one but their keeper.

“You speak in riddles.” He said. Even the Dúnedain did not live that long. She did not respond, her heavy lidded eyes finally having fallen shut. “...Sleep well, spellcaster.” He murmured, blowing out the light and settling back into the chair to sleep.

______________________________________

Early the next morning Silwen woke with an aching thirst; it was just beginning to be light outside, not past the time that the company would depart, fortunately. She felt heavy, sunk into the bed as if she and her pounding head were made of lead. There was a lump on her temple what felt the size of a goose egg, and she could not remember where it could be from. Perhaps she was dancing too wildly last night and fell and hit her head? She was dressed but felt just barely, all of her laces loosened. How had she gotten upstairs and into this bed?

“We have a long ride ahead of us. Are you fit to travel?” The voice was Thorin’s- she blinked in the light, the shoulder of her blouse falling entirely off as she lifted a hand to shade her eyes to look for the leader of their company. She snatched at the cloth to keep it from revealing any more than it already had.

“W-what-” She spoke in stops and starts, her brain too foggy to process anything but embarrassment. This wasn’t a situation she had expected herself to be in. He, at least, was fully dressed and even bearing his plate of breakfast, so was this her room or his? If it was his, what was she doing there, and if it was hers, what was he?

“You had too much ale last night. The inn was full and I was unable to find you a bed of your own.” He explained. Grasping wildly for any memory of last night, she managed to drag an image from the murky depths of her memory: herself, kissing a older, bearded man. Oh no.

“Did I....” She stammered, face flaring. “Did we...?” He seemed taken aback by the question, but only for a moment.

“No.”

The memory swam and she realized that he was right, it couldn’t have been him. Her, kissing Thorin? Thorin, kissing her. The concept was unreachable. Mentally swearing off ale forever, she hastily tied the collar of her shirt closed once more and crawled out of the bed the best she could, feeling sluggish on her feet.

“I’m so sorry I inconvenienced you. I’ll retrieve my things and be ready to travel in a few moments.” She said, embarrassment making formalities she wouldn’t normally use spill from her tongue. As the company set out that morning there was a buffered silence between Silwen and Thorin. Whereas she was abashed at her behavior the previous night, she had a feeling that her antics however unseemly fell beneath his lofty regard or concern.

Once, perhaps, when she was very young, she might have had an eye for some handsome man who came to her door seeking trade, but none of them lit enough of a spark in her breast that she’d consider allowing them to touch her, and after a while of no man dared approach her door without the proper awe. How she could have so easily suffered a stranger to handle her?

Never again would she let ale go to her head like that. And the great leader of their company, how was she to face him after depriving him of his bed for the night- and while in that state. With the others she allowed herself to be free, but acting in such a manner probably only proved to Thorin that his apparent dislike of her was warranted.

______________________________

Nights later, Silwen was awakened by a far off scream. She jolted upwards and found herself in an unfamiliar place, the fire beginning to burn low. They had made camp slightly off the road and against a cliff, nestled in a protective alcove. Like her, Bilbo had been awakened by the noise, but he had never left the shire and never heard such things that came in the night.

“What was that?” He asked, scrambling out of his sleeping roll and towards Kili and Fili who were keeping the watch.

“Orcs.”  
Another scream came from across the valley under them. Silwen did not know what it was, but it did not sound like orcs. Bilbo expressed his doubt in a quavering voice.

“Orcs?” He asked. Quite seriously, Fili continued to stuff his pipe with tobacco, nodding.

“Throat-cutters. There’ll be dozens of them out there. The lowlands are crawling with them.” He said. Kili dropped his voice and by the way they were ganging up on him, Silwen knew that they were lying.

  
“They strike in the wee small hours, when everyone’s asleep.” Kili said, obviously relishing the look of fright on Bilbo’s face. “Quick and quiet; no screams, just lots of blood.”

“You two tidy arssholes. Can’t even keep a straight face,” she accused from her sleeping spot by the fire. “Scaring the poor fellow like that for no reason.” Caught in their charade, the two dwarf princes looked at each other and let the laughter burst through. Thorin stood from where he had been supposedly dozing half sitting, and strode past them, scowling.

“You think that’s funny? You think a night raid by orcs is a joke?” He asked. Chastised, Kili cast how gaze downward.

“We didn’t mean anything by it.”

“No, you didn’t.” Thorin snapped. “You know nothing of the world.” And with that, he strode to the far end of the cliff where he could be farthest from camp without losing sight of it. Balin spoke up to comfort Kili.

“Don’t mind him, laddie. Thorin has more cause than most to hate orcs. After the dragon took the Lonely Mountain, King Thror tried to reclaim the ancient dwarf kingdom of Moria. But our enemy had got there first.” Moria. Silwen well knew the stories of Moria; vast and rich, but endlessly plagued by the vast deep that they mined their very livelihood from.

  
“Moria had been taken by legions of Orcs lead by the most vile of all their race: Azog, the Defiler. The giant Gundabad Orc had sworn to wipe out the line of Durin. He began by beheading the King. Thrain, Thorin’s father, was driven mad by grief. He went missing, taken prisoner or killed, we did not know. We were leaderless. Defeat and death were upon us. That is when I saw him: a young dwarf prince facing down the Pale Orc.”

  
As she listened, Silwen allowed Balin to transport her to another time; this was no myth, yet the way he told it held traces of legend as if it held heroes unreal. She could see him there- Thorin in the thick of battle and nobly armored- but in her imagination he was not a gleaming knight, but a blood soaked soldier, raw muscle and straining sinew, desperation and rage. And in his desperation, he was beautiful.

“He stood alone against this terrible foe, his armor rent…wielding nothing but an oaken branch as a shield”

  
And she could see it. This stern, ill tempered dwarf, facing an enemy many times his size and only by the sheer force of his will, surviving. She doubted not one word.

“Azog, the Defiler, learned that day that the line of Durin would not be so easily broken. Our forces rallied and drove the orcs back. Our enemy had been defeated. But there was no feast, no song, that night, for our dead were beyond the count of grief. We few had survived." Balin looked now to Thorin and Silwen followed his gaze, seeing the same image as he did that day, of a dwarf king upon a hill, framed in sunlight. “And I thought to myself then, there is one who I could follow. There is one I could call King.”


	3. Little Blades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TLDR: They fight to quell the burgeoning sexual tension. Silwen throws some rocks, our hero and heroine have a moment

Nights later, they had nested their company in the shallow hollow of a small hill, setting up camp in the safety of that little den. As they broke camp that morning, the packs were redistributed amongst them to keep the ponies from getting worn out on the new, somewhat hillier and rockier terrain. Dwarves were known for their incredible strength despite their size, but Thorin noticed that whereas Bilbo required a lighter pack to accommodate his frame, the young woman accompanying them shouldered an equal share of weight uncomplainingly, plodding forward with the determination of an ox. It was beginning to be late spring and the days grew warmer; she had removed her cloak and bodice to let the breeze through the fabric of her cotton blouse, but with the weight of the things piled on her back a trickle of sweat still ran down her neck.

“Let me take part of your burden. You’re going to fall behind.”

They had avoided eachother and not spoken since the morning at the inn, so these being the first words he spoke to her, she flushed.

“I could have carried it myself.” She retorted, but he had taken some of the weight and was already ahead of her. It seemed like such a small thing, but between the way she’d humiliated herself and the way he seemed ever so set on treating her as if she were not able, she was mentally picking up sticks to draw her line in the sand. By late afternoon they had come across the ruins of what had been a farm house. It was nearing sunset, so Thorin ordered that they make camp.

“We camp here for the night. Fili, Kili, look out for the ponies. Silwen, Bilbo, gather wood and start a fire.” He directed, and the company broke to obey. Gandalf, however, seemed unsettled by the spot, suggesting that they move further into the next valley as long as they had light. Thorin refused. Silwen didn’t need to consult the map to know which valley Gandalf was insisting they take; it seemed little sense to deny that it was safe passage there, and indeed, even a few miles shorter for their ponies. She continued with her task without comment, however, listening all the while to what parts of the argument she could hear from a distance. Finally Gandalf strode away in a huff. Bilbo, who hated the wizard to leave, piped up.

“Is everything alright?” he asked. “Gandalf, where are you going?”

“To seek the company of the only one here who seems to have any sense, Myself, Mr. Baggins!” He grumbled as he strode past, mounting his horse. As he left, a cloud came over Silwen’s face. She didn’t feel incapable of her duties without him, but the bickering she could heartily do without. With the light rain to dampen everyone’s spirits, the mood was contagious within the camp as they settled in for the evening. It was Nori who began complaining about the wet first, a chorus of agreement coming from the other dwarves.

“Can’t you do something about this rain?” Was the question, but clouds were clouds and they would do as they wished. Silwen kicked a log lightly, dislodging a dead branch that had been stuck under it.

“It would make some use to have Gandalf about- I cannot do anything about the weather. The most I can do is cover a little of the roof and light the fire with this damp wood.” She said. Fire was not hard for her, even in the wet, and soon there was a merry little campfire blazing away in the middle of the camp. Still, as she cooked, she could not shake her mood. Something was wrong and it nagged at the back of her mind. A smell creeping in on the moisture in the air. Adding salt to the pot, she stirred it in with the ladle and went to turn to Bilbo to ask his opinion- only to bump into Thorin brushing by the fire with his bedroll slung over his shoulder. The soup slopped over the edge of the ladle; the scalding heat made her temper flare,

“Curse the clumsiness of Dwarves! And your stubbornness!” She snapped, only to have Thorin bite to the exact core of her temper.

“Gandalf comes and goes of his own accord, it’s not my fault what he chooses to do.” He returned.

“If you didn’t insist on driving him away with argumentative nonsense!” She returned the ladle to the pot and picked up another branch for the fire, snapping it with a greater strength than one might expect from her frame. “He has lived an age or two longer than either of us I would expect, and has some advice to offer even the greatest of kings, your excellency.” She continued, her tone clipped, throwing the branch into the fire. Poor Bilbo was caught between the two, scooping two bowls for tonight’s pony guard and attempting to edge somewhat awkwardly away.

“I suppose I’ll just take these to Kili and Fili...” He said, his voice trailing off as he began to edge away from the fire. Before he could disappear, however, she snatched one of the bowls from him and followed.

“As will I.” She said, stalking away like an angry cat.

_____________________________

Removing herself from the campfire improved the situation, but only by creating a whole new one. There was a problem. Ponies were missing.

“Well, as our official burglar and witch, we thought you two might like to look into it.” Said Kili. Bilbo balked. Silwen hesitated but was first to speak. She provided her service to the company in day to day matters, but this was her first chance to prove herself in the purpose she was truly there for. And the one she and apparently Thorin were most unsure she could provide. Thorin. She thought back to the road and suddenly her mind was made up. She’d prove her worth to him if it was the last thing she did.

“We’ll go. Won’t we, Bilbo?” She said. Bilbo cleared his throat and adjusted his smart little vest nervously and then decidedly.

“Of course!” He said

As they came upon the campfire, much bigger than their own, Silwen realized the source of her unease; the smell that had been hinting at bigger problems...was troll. Three of them, massive and ugly, and one of them happened to have one pony under each arm, lumbering into view of the fire. Bilbo was scandalized.

“He’s got Myrtle and Minty! I think they’re going to eat them, we have to do something!” He said, perhaps a little too loud. Fili clapped a hand to Bilbo’s mouth to muffle the noise, agreeing wholeheartedly in a much softer tone.

“Yes; you should. Mountain trolls are slow and stupid, and you’re so small. You’ll be in and out before they even notice what’s happened.” He said. Bilbo began to protest, but the brothers began to push and Silwen grabbed Bilbo’s sleeves to keep him from running back the way they’d come. “And you have a witch, what could go wrong?” Fili whispered, confidently.

“It’s perfectly safe.” Added Kili. 

________________________

With Bilbo so shakingly nervous and Kili and Fili, Silwen had attempted to take charge of the situation; this had not been the wisest course of action. What she knew of mountain trolls was useless in this situation, because all she knew could kill them was a large sword or sunlight, and she happened to have neither at her disposal. Bilbo, the poor creature, had gone round to free the ponies with Silwen hidden at the very edge of the firelight, in case he should need rescuing or the trolls need distraction. It had all gone quite according to plan until one of them had sneezed and reached for his version of a filthy hanky and come up- inexplicably- with a handful of hobbit.

Silwen began to sweat then and there. There was much shrieking and hulabaloo round about the fire, with some leaping about and general tomfoolery at the great surprise that had blindsided all three trolls. It was then that Silwen realized her only offensive plan had been to set the trolls on fire, and that might not be the safest of actions with Bilbo in their literal grip. Despite the damp, her fire would burn straight through it as if the trees were made of bone dry tinder. So as they argued whether or not to eat Bilbo, she picked up a stone and lobbed it, thunking it right into the nose of the troll that was holding him. He was dropped smartly as the troll grabbed at his nose, howling in pain. The noise could be clearly heard all throughout the forest, unknowingly attracting the wrong kind of attention. Fili and Kili had circled around and had been watching from the far side of the firelight and now took this minor attack to be a call of action, leaping into the light with battlecries and vinegar. They hacked at the legs of the trolls, more of the company flooding through the bushes to help, attracted by the cries. Bilbo scrambled halfway to safety before getting promptly caught once more, all activity coming to a halt.

“Lay down your arms, or we’ll rip his off.” One troll threatened. Silwen’s blouse was now becoming drenched with sweat. This was going terribly. She couldn’t allow herself to be caught, she had to stall them until daylight came. As determined as she had originally been to prove herself, she felt helpless, stuck in a corner by all the things that could go wrong should she show herself. Gandalf, where are you when I need you? Fire was hopeless- sacked and bound as they were now being rounded up, the dwarves were in no condition to run should one get out of hand- and with them in the middle of the camp, she felt her magic would more than likely hit them as well as the trolls. Running in, metaphorical sword drawn like some sort of hero would only get her captured as well. Doing the only thing that she could think of, she picked up another fist sized rock and standing still just outside the fire’s light, lobbed it directly at Bert’s head. Out of some miracle, it bounced directly off his thick skull, causing him to yelp and roughly drop Ori, who he had been sizing up for the pot.

“HEY!” Dancing outside the light, she picked up a stone in each hand, shouting insults to distract them. “Hey, slim shoddy, aren’t you silly old things? Limp curs!” Bounce. Thunk. “Fat guts! Bunch backed toads! Craven maggot-toes!” She tripped in the foliage, accidentally skidding into the firelight and skinning a bit of her chin as she did so. Scrambling to her feet to between the dwarves and their would-be chefs, she picked up another rock, shouting and screaming with all her might as her chin began to drip blood. The campfire erupted, keeping them scared and at bay like a whip would hungry wolves.

“Back! BACK!”

She might be able to keep up this dance for a while, but not long enough for sunlight to save them. Keeping out of their hands herself was a possibility, but there was only one of her and three of them. Should the trolls decide to carry the dwarves away there was little that Silwen would be able to do. Perhaps save a few of them, but only the ones that couldn’t fit in the giant’s hands to be snatched up and carried away. The dwarves shouted too, struggling in their sacks and threatening what they would do when they got out and to their weapons. But being in the light for a moment was long enough for one troll. A swooping hand came down and caught her like a rabbit. She shrieked, struggling to slip out of the grasp of a giant hand, but it was far too tight. Temper and panic flared and so did the campfire, a fevered sweat licking across her brow, but she was held fast and soon was in a sack the same as the dwarves.

She landed more heavily than she expected in the pile of wriggling dwarves, but being tied to the spit was the worst by far. She had the luck to be tied to Dwalin and she tried very hard not to look him in the eye, lest she see the burgeoning disappointment she thought she deserved. As they spun tied to the spit as they were, the ropes dug into her skin, biting more than the heat did, but none so much as the humiliation.

“Give me dragons. Give me orcs. But by the Valar, do not let me die like this.” She groaned, hair plastered to her face with sweat.

“You’re one to talk, I think its your foot in my back!” someone shouted, but tied as she was she could only guess that it was Gloin. As sweat from the searing heat dripped into her eyes, she thought she saw something shift out of the corner of her eye and lo! Came Gandalf’s voice!

“The dawn will take you all!”

 The trolls held council amongst themselves.

  
“Who’s that?” 

“No idea.”

  
“Can we eat `im too?” 

There was the sound of rock crumbling and dawn broke upon them in a blazing glory of sun.

______________________________

The dawn that Silwen had held their luck upon had come just in time; and Gandalf for that matter, but she could not forgive herself for failing- until they traced the troll’s tracks back to a small trove of stolen treasure that had no doubt come from victims on the road.

The little trove sparked an excitement in her that she had to actively quell- it seemed a small piece of what was to come in the halls under the lonely mountain; here and now, her desire to fondle and bask might have been inappropriate. And it smelled of troll. She concentrated instead on the sword the Thorin now held- Orcrist. It was a magnificent sword, large and of exquisite make. However, even though the sword was meant to be wielded by man or elf it did not diminish the dwarf king’s stature but rather added to it. Backlit by the sun streaming through the cave entrance, he and it were an entrancing sight- striking and noble. She turned away. Today had not been a victory for her.

“Silwen.”

They had not spoken more than a few words since the morning at the inn; she expected a lecture now that the company was out of danger, but when she turned to face him he was holding a small blade towards her- more the size of a dirk, but perfect for her stature.

“It will not do to have you weaponless.” He said. His eyes held no hardness in them. As she took it, their hands brushed and doubtless he could feel the heat of her skin, excited as she was by the presence of gold. The blade was the perfect size for someone of her stature, but the belt was not, promptly slipping off her hips and to the ground with a dull clanking thud. Thorin bent and retrieved it, pulling out a dagger of his own and sizing her up before digging another three notches into it. His eyes so keen upon her made her stomach flutter like the crystalline butterflies she had once filled her cottage with. He handed it back and she belted it firmly round her waist.

It fit perfectly.


	4. Wargs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TLDR: The time is right. Silwen does more than household magic. (An unfinished chapter)

Though none of them had slept that night, the morning was underway and so they had to be. As they left the trees the road became indistinct and easily lost, directing their path across a craggy plain. It wasn’t much later in the day than noontide when they heard the first howl. The dwarves bristled, closing ranks almost imperceptibly- Silwen’s hand went to her new sword; she didn’t necessarily know how to use it, but something was terribly wrong and she would rather have a sword than not. Ever the sheltered, Bilbo piped up first.

“Was that a wolf? Are there wolves out here?” He asked.

“That was no wolf.” Said Bofur. It was upon them before any of them could respond, a hulking shape smashing into Silwen and sending her tumbling sideways into the grass with a surprised scream. Orcrist was out of its scabbard in a moment, Thorin striking the warg down as it circled round for another attack. The breath had been knocked clean out of her, but Silwen clawed herself upright and drew her sword just as another of the beasts came at them from the opposite side, blood hammering through her veins with a painful ferocity for survival. Kili was ready with an arrow and struck the second one down as fast as it could leap for them, sending it skidding into the dirt with a pained yelp. It attempted to recover, only to be felled by a heavy blow from Dwalin’s ax.

“Where are they coming from?” Silwen asked, frantically looking for more. Something told her there were more, she could smell them.

“Warg scouts! Which means an Orc pack is not far behind.” snarled Thorin. Silwen could hardly breathe. She forced the air in and out of her lungs, simultaneously terrified and hungry. There was enough space on the plain, there were ways she could defend them here without a sword. This was no trio of stupid, fumbling trolls- an orc pack was organized.

“We’re being hunted?” She asked. Why? Who could know of their quest? If this was to be the first true test of her usefulness, she was scared witless to face it.

“We have to get out of here.” Said Dwalin, wiping the warg’s blood from his ax on its own hide. Ori came skittering back from scouting over the closest ridge, sounding frantic.

“We can’t! We have no ponies; they bolted.”

“Then run!” shouted Gandalf. They took to the rock and grass as if their lives depended on it, and indeed, within moments they could hear the hunting cries of the pack behind them. “Stay together!” They needed no bidding, moving as one.

“Move!” Thorin shouted, herding the rest. “Where are you leading us?” He cried to Gandalf, but Gandalf gave no answer, blocking the way and sending the company swerving in a new direction as they were granted a visual of their pursuers. Warg riders, five to the side and at least as many hot on their heels behind. A grating shriek from their captain rang harsh in the air.

“The dwarfscum are over there! After them!” Blood curdling howls chased them across the heath- Kili loosed arrow after arrow over his shoulder at every opportunity, but they were sorely lack for long range weapons. The wargs began now to surround them at all sides. Gandalf had now herded them towards an outcropping of rock, but it seemed only to succeed on pinning them down.

“We’re surrounded!” Shouted Fili. “Where is Gandalf?” Amongst the chaos, he had disappeared. Dwalin voiced the worst.

“He has abandoned us.” He grated. Bravely, Ori loosed rocks at them from his slingshot, succeeding in removing one rider from his seat. At the head of the company with his stance low and braced, Thorin had drawn his sword and was ready to meet the onslaught.

“Hold your ground!” He bellowed. She couldn’t do nothing- the thought of waiting until the orcs began to pick them off soured her stomach. Quickly, Silwen calculated. The rocks offered the company enough protection, should they need it, a good sounding wall. She scrambled to the front of the company, pushing past even Thorin.

“Silwen, come back!” He called, alarmed, but to no avail. Standing her ground, she threw out a hand and pushed through her terror with all her might.

“CEASE!” She cried, her voice echoing across the plain. A explosion of white light rushed from her and hit the warg riders like a blast wave; the luckiest were sent flying, but the closest two were burnt so terribly that their flesh flew apart like leaves. Gandalf’s voice shook the company, appearing from a crack in the rock that none of them had before noticed.

“This way, you fools!” He shouted. Thorin took no time to turn and push them forward while Silwen’s magic still bought them time, snatching her by the arm and dragging her away from their attackers.

“They’re still coming!” She shouted, emboldened by her success and attempting to twist from his grip.

“Come on, move! Quickly, all of you! Go, go, go!” He commanded, turning back to their recovering attackers. Gandalf counted them as they crammed themselves through the gap. Kili and Thorin were the last to come through, the snapping jaws of a warg following them in, but closing on nothing but air. As they leapt to safety, a horn sounded- not orcish, but none that Silwen had ever heard. Though they had parted from the enemy, outside the sound of a skirmish intensified; an orc emerged from the gap, but inert, an arrow stuck through his eye. Thorin plucked it from the socket and inspected its make.

“Elves.” He said, bitterly.


	5. Platos the Cave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TLDR: Silwen has an oops moment, cliffhanger

As excitedly as she had first entered Rivendale, leaving it was a relief. Silwen didn’t wish to think about what she had heard or to wonder what it had meant. As they left the safety of the valley and wandered deeper into the wilds surrounding the Misty Mountains the nights grew more chill. Grass and trees faded into rock and they did not dare to sing or talk too loud, for the echoes were uncanny and the silence seemed to dislike being broken. It was in those days that Silwen learned to love her little blade. She kept it close, but truthfully did not know how to use it except to imitate the motions of her staff. Sometimes, if one of the dwarves was game they would spar- usually her and Bilbo trippingly attempting to learn how to handle a blade with Fili handling them both at once. From outside the circle of combat, Thorin called out to her to critique her movements.

“You’re using your sword as a bludgeon.” he said. “Your blade is much too small for that- you must rely on quickness rather than force.” He rose and walked into the small field of combat, drawing Orchrist, and Fili moved aside so Thorin could take the field. Silwen did not know what to expect, tensing as she readied to be tested, but he was not impatient with her- he moved the large blade slowly at first, instructing her. The strike of Orcrist against her small blade was heavy, but determined not to lose face in front of him, she met his blows.

“Good,” He said, “Now faster. Defend yourself.”

She was taller than him by a hair, but with their stances firmly planted and blades pressed together as they were, they were at eye level with each other. Meeting his dark stone eyes her breath caught in her throat. She was not a dainty woman, but compared to him she felt like a slip of a thing. Like he could overpower her at any moment; somehow, with her blood up, the thought of wrestling with him upon the ground did not sound all that unappealing.

_____________________________

Though she was strong for her sex and by nature of their species a whisper taller, by the same nature his frame outweighed hers; the deeper things within her were restrained in every moment, except for those when she was not- like a quiet, unassuming animal until she bared her teeth, and then he saw the untamed ferocity within. The longer he was aware of her, the more he found himself admiring her when she wasn’t looking; now, he was confronted with it, looking directly into those doe colored eyes and finding again the fire behind them burning excitedly.

He noticed her sleeping closer to him in camp over their days of travel and found himself careful of where he laid his own bedroll. Slowly, there seemed to be no more towns, no more villages. The road became wilder and less distinct. The mountains were difficult, a storm bringing night quicker than it should have and slicking the rock under their feet and the wind howling about their ears until they were forced to concede defeat and take shelter in a dry cave.

That night Silwen dreampt of that tower at Annúminas. She felt no apprehension, no fear as the edge enticed her. As she dove from the sheer crumbling rock something inside her snapped like restraining chains and her arms unfolded like wings, the wind carrying her gliding over ruins and water. For a few fleeting moments she reveled in the wildness, the crystalline rush through her veins warming like fire until she was enveloped in it. It devoured her like an illness, losing control of her flight as all became flame. She plunged into the lake like a spinning arrow, sizzling and clawing-

She sat upright with a gasp, still fighting her way to the surface and her flailing hand coming into solid contact with something that felt very much like hard flesh. Hands immediately gripped her wrists- she opened her eyes and came face to face with Thorin, a small bruise beginning to redden around a scratch high on his cheek. Horror stamped itself on Silwen’s face as her brain woke and registered what had just occurred.

“You’re having a nightmare.” was all he said, releasing her now that she was no longer actively trying to fight him.

“I...! I am so sorry!” She stammered, shocked into politeness.

“I only meant to wake you for night watch. You can be a hellion when you have a stomach full of ale or ire.” He said, touching his cheek and looking soberly at the blood that came off his fingertips. He looked back to her from under a heavy, serious brow; did she imagine it, or did his eyes glimmer darkly in the light of the coals of the fire? “Take the watch with me.” He said, standing and offering her his hand. Her nailbeds were sore and packed with dirt from clutching at the ground- brushing the filth briefly off, she took her sword from where it lay in its scabbard beside her and allowed him to lift her to her feet. Effortlessly. “A bruise for a bruise.” he said. He face flared and her stomach dropped.

“You-! Said we didn’t-” she began, her whisper a hiss so the others would not hear if they woke. He wasn’t undesirable, but the thought of not being aware, of being at anyone’s mercy....the possibility of humiliating herself in front of him, who she tried so hard to present a capable front to. His brow furrowed.

“I would not lay hands on you, woman or dwarrow, if you did not wish it. You were in no state.” He said. The knot in her stomach flip flopped in a new direction and the mention of her wishing it sent a fresh wave of heat to her face. At first she had disliked his coldness, but that had turned into a resentment towards him for being handsome. After thinking about it for weeks on the road with him, nearing upon months now, she had mulled it over perhaps too much and realized something quite terrifying.

She felt something for him. This pompous, cold, stern ass of a dwarf. Something in her had recognized her desire the moment she had seen his eyes aglow in the light of Bilbo’s fire in the Shire, and out of the sheer terror of inexperience had slammed the door shut on any growing possibilities between them- even if she had known what to do with herself and her stammering tongue. He was the last dwarf she wanted to take watch with for this reason. What vile weakness compelled her to seek his approval? She shied from it, this unrecognizable desire to possess what was not hers, nor familiar. What could she ever say to convince him she was worthy of his time, much less his affection? Besides- though displaced he may be, he was still a king and she was still just a woods-witch. She might have proven herself to the company, but she wanted him to see her as more than competent. She knew all the sudden that she wanted to glow in his eyes. Knowing that she didn’t was terrible and it trapped all of it inside her, a hard ball inside her chest rioting to be released but knowing that she couldn’t. Besides, she knew nothing of the love between a man and a woman- only the possession of things.

So she sat with him and quietly sharpened her little sword in the dark. Words wanted to come, but thinking about them only glued her mouth tighter shut. This was a hard journey in the first place, so far harder than she’d predicted, but it was he and his determination that held the company together. Despite his bickering with Gandalf. Looking over to Gandalf’s sleeping form, she wondered if she could tell him about this, and if he would have any advice for her. She chanced a glance at Thorin, reading his profile in the dark. He was smoking and the embers from his pipe lit up his face just enough to see that rising bruise under his scratch. She felt a little twinge. What had she been dreaming about that had caused her to strike out like that? He had certainly grown more patient with her...She thought about waking up in the inn and thinking that he had been the one she had been kissing. Forgetting that it had gotten her into trouble, and remembering what kissing had been like, she thought about Thorin and kissing him and was quite glad that it was dark when she felt the heat rise to her face. Would he be tender or demanding? Could she ever trust him enough to kiss him, even if he knew and accepted her?

She was caught in these thoughts for a long time, staring out to the entrance of the cave and absent mindedly sharpening the air above her sword instead of making contact with the blade. They enveloped her in a haze of confusion and heat and almost- almost did not let her go when she heard the first crack. Thorin leapt up at the rumble that followed, but she was still looking around for the source- it was then that the floor of the cave opened up.


	6. Deep Down in Goblin Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TLDR: You wouldn't like her when she's angry. Here we go into romance novel territory

Falling, falling, bundled dwarves and Silwen and Thorin with their weapons out went slipping and sliding down down down- the floor had opened like a trapdoor, sending them down it like a slide, deep into the bowels of the mountain. Over the shouts and screams of the dwarves Silwen could hear drums. When they landed in an undignified heap, it was in another, deeper cave, a hundred goblins surrounding them. The bamboozled dwarves were seized at once by scrabbling, clawed hands, their weapons taken from them and their hands bound roughly behind them. A booming voice came from above, the biggest of the goblins, crowned and enthroned upon a chair of bones. Silwen had never seen a goblin but for an illustration in one of her books, but she took no time to ponder what kind of situation they were in. She began to chant, raising the fire in the torches against their holders, flames whipping out like tongues to burn their captors- the obvious leader pointed with his scepter-

“Gag her!”

“MMF!” She protested as a filthy knotted rope was forced into her mouth, salty and greasy against her tongue. Glancing around in the torchlight she could not find Gandalf. This would not do. Savagely, she chewed the rope, gagging and growling and drooling.

“Trespassing!” Howled the goblin king. “Injuring my people! Using magic against us! DWARVES ON OUR VERY FRONT PORCH, SPYING-”

Silwen heard no more, her eyes rolling up in her head. She felt like she was seizing, magic flowing deep in her veins trapped by her closed mouth. Feeling as if her body suddenly weighed a ton, she went down on her knees, chewing that rope and gagging and mumbling beneath it. She thought the words instead of saying them,

_Jiak raiuke againukav lat zajar_

Around her there was a clamor from the goblins, recognizing the weapons they had taken from the dwarves.

“I know that sword! It is the Goblin-Cleaver, the Biter, the blade that sliced a thousand necks.” Ground the goblin king- his servants leaped upon them, whipping and slashing with knives “Slash them! Beat them! Kill them! Kill them all! Cut off his head!”

They were about to die. There was a blade poised over Thorin’s throat. Silwen snarled, pushing with all her mental strength.

_SKAAT, GHASH, SKAAT_

A black light erupted from her like and explosion, blowing her hair into the air and lifting everyone in the area off their feet, knocking the goblin king over his throne. Goblins were screaming, melting- the black fire burned only them, the dwarves passing through untouched. It was then she heard Gandalf’s voice, herding the company through the thick of the goblins.

“Take up arms. Fight. Fight!” He shouted. Eyes rolled back in her head she couldn’t see but a pair of strong hands grabbed her and yanked her to her feet and she ran. Slowly darkness gave way to torchlight and she ran of her own accord, finding that it was Dwalin that had picked her up by the arms- she gnashed at the rope in her mouth, breathing the lingering magic from her mouth and dissolving it into ash as she ran. She hadn’t known she could do that, but there was no time to think, feet pounding into the dim away from the screams that followed them.

_____________________________________

Daylight was their savior- the sun was slipping down in the sky, but they had it for the time being. Silwen had no idea how they had managed to find their way through the mountain but they had and they gulped in fresh air through strained and bellowing lungs. They only stopped when they were far from the mountain’s exit and in a clearing of pines. The company had recovered their weapons in the first surge and bonds were cut, Silwen rubbing at her sore wrists. It had been difficult to run with her hands bound hind her, anticipating tripping at every moment and knowing that she couldn’t catch herself if she had. They took stock of the situation, Gandalf counting heads.

“Five, six, seven, eight” He began “...Bifur, Bofur...that’s ten...Fili, Kili...that’s twelve...and Bombur - that makes thirteen.” Suddenly his voice sharpened. “Where’s Bilbo? Where is our Hobbit??”

Accusations flew. Nori was supposed to have him- no, Dwalin. But Dwalin had grabbed Silwen, not Bilbo. Who had last seen him and where? Silwen put up a hand, looking into the woods towards the mountain. She smelled him before she saw him, popping out from behind a pine as if he had just jogged up.

“I’m here.”

There were many relieved sighs, for Bilbo, as out of place he was with his handkerchiefs and tea sets, had become a much loved part of the company, and closer to being necessary as they drew towards the lonely mountain. Bofur had grabbed him and was in the middle of inflicting a celebratory mussing of Bilbo’s hair when Silwen barked.

“Shut up. All of you.” She said. There was an uneasy silence.

“Out of the frying pan...” Murmured Thorin. Silwen didn’t wait, hiking up her trousers and turning to flee.

“...and into the fire! Run! RUN!” Shouted Gandalf, and the chase was on. Howls greeted them from the surrounding woods, the snapping of jaws and twang of arrows landing at their feet spurring them onwards. It wasn’t long before they reached an outcropping of rock, realizing that it was a cliff and turning to face their pursuers with weapons drawn, every one. The first scout met Bilbo, and surprisingly, his blade, impaling itself upon it. Gandalf began hoisting dwarves into the pines.“Up into the trees, all of you! Come on, climb! Bilbo, climb!” He urged. Silwen grabbed a branch and hauled herself up into the boughs. They were coming. Gloin threw an ax, embedding it into the skull of another warg and stopping it short beneath the trees. He was a tree away, but Silwen still heard Thorin’s sharp intake of breath.

“Azog?! It cannot be.” he said. A white orc barked orders from below, wargs and their riders scrabbling at the bark at the base of the trees. Though he spoke a language rough and dark, Silwen understood.

_“Kod, Toragid biriz.” That one is mine. “Worori-da!” Kill the others!_

“NO!” She screamed down at them. She seized a pine cone and it lit fire in her hand, casting it down onto them with all her strength. Gandalf took the idea and ran with it, coaxing flames into another cone with the top of his staff and tossing the flaming object to Dori.

“Here!” As Gandalf distributed projectiles, Silwen tossed handful after handful of flaming cones, bouncing off of wargs, setting fur alight and sparking onto the ground. The dwarves cheered as they retreated, whining and barking. The cheers turned very quickly into yells of panic once more as the roots of the trees began to give way- the added weight of the company had begun to rip at the fragiley positioned trees near the edge. Fire whipped from the ground to the failing trees, lighting the branches around them- and it was in the light of this fire that she saw him rise, sword drawn.

They were going to die. Thorin ran through the fire, sword and oaken shield in hand, a dwarven king without a crown. Azog received him with a toothsome smile, as did his warg, leaping at Thorin and smashing him to the ground. Silwen became deaf to the other’s cries, clawing her way down the burning trunk to reach him in time. He got to his feet only to meet Azog’s mace to the face, his body flung to the ground like a ragdoll- he could be dead from a blow such as that. Balin roared, his cry mingled with that of Azog’s of excitement. Silwen went slipping the rest of the way down the trunk, falling to her feet in a crouch and getting to him on all fours. He was still alive- she turned to face the danger, little sword drawn and knowing that this orc would kill her.

“Bring me his head.” Grated the white orc. A warg came to finish Thorin off and Silwen slashed at it, snarling, beating it into a retreat. She was so frightened that she had gone past terror and into a sort of numbness; there was a roaring in her chest that she could not ignore.

“You will not touch him!” She shouted. All was burning and she was fire, gritting her jaw and showing teeth that had not been that sharp only moments ago. Her voice was larger than herself, dark and twisted. “ _By my life, you will not touch him!_ ” She didn’t know where to turn, there was nowhere to run. They would eat her and then rip him to shreds. _Not if I have anything to say about it._ She struck out at a warg and rider who were getting too close, earning the warg a stripe across the face. Finally one dismounted, coming at her with his own blade and she parried, using her smaller size to her advantage and slipping under his sword and behind him, leaping upon him and stabbing, stabbing, aerating his back with several large holes. Blood gushed from him and across Silwen’s face as they fell together, her landing on her feet and turning to face the incoming crowd. There were too many, but she was taken from the ground by the arms, lifted with a great shrieking cry of the eagle who had come for her. As she was lifted higher and higher over the scene, the ground dropping away, she saw that Thorin’s body had been taken already and the dwarves in the pines were being picked up.

Fight or flight still buzzing through her head, she panted and tried not to think about the blood. Her tongue crept out of her lips, tasting it and denying herself a reaction to this because she was simply too exhausted to fight anything else. As she rose far above the flames and carnage, she let go and cried.

___________________________________

The eagles, friends of Gandalf, had taken them the rest of the way over the range and deposited them in an aerie. It was like a reunion, with much hugging and checking of wounds and reassurances that they were alright. There were burns and cuts and bruises to take care of, but Thorin had regained consciousness during the flight and Silwen went to him, cleaning her sword on a tuft of grass and sheathing it. She had spent many a night in her cottage bereft of human contact and knowing that she was alone in this world, but for the first time since she was a child she wished to be held. It felt like if he didn’t grasp her somehow, she might be taken by the wind. The company's success was her goal, but she had defended Thorin in the face of death- something she hadn't done or wished to do for anyone before. Her face was still streaked with blood, but since they had lost their things she could not wash.

“I feel as if I jumped from here I would fly again. Do you ever feel that way?”

“We dwarves prefer to keep our feet firmly planted on the ground.” He replied. It hurt too much to resist the pull towards him- she latched on to him like a magnet, burying her face in the thick sable fur of his coat. The relief when he didn’t pull away almost floored her.

“We almost lost you.” she said, weakly.

“We?” He said, pulling her chin up to look at him. She looked away, part shamed, and she knew that he could read her face like an open book, even underneath the blood.

“I......” she admitted. But there was more that she couldn’t keep from spilling out now that she had confessed. “What dwarf has ever loved a witch?...and a king no less.” She said, her voice weakening with every word. She shouldn’t be saying any of this- each word was a brand upon her that she couldn’t take back, likely ugly in his eyes, but she couldn’t stop. No, the damage had already been done, so she would say her piece. And then never say it again. “As much as I desire them, I am unworthy of your attentions. I know you would never give them.” She stumbled in every direction, torn and finally beginning to lose momentum. “I am so sorry- I ask for nothing, only for you to not look badly upon me for it-”

He interrupted, and her heart leaped to her throat and set itself aflame.

“Will you quiet before your injure yourself?” He said, and Silwen, sorceress, she who struck fear into the hearts of men, trembled abruptly; her body was struck with an ache that weighed upon her like lead. How foolish could she have been, to tell him? It was no cold welcome to her words, however. Rough hands tenderly took her face, turning it back towards him so they could properly speak; when she had the courage to look, his brow was not stern but mercifully kinder than she had ever seen it, his lips turned slightly upwards.

“You asked and I will give you an answer:” he began. She held her breath, her eyes locked onto his. “This dwarf king could love a witch.” He said, and he so gently pressed his forehead against hers, getting blood on himself as he did so. A deep relieved sigh slackened her whole body, fizzy bubbles traveling from her stomach all the way to her fingers and toes. Oh. What was this? Fumbling for an answer, she kissed his bearded cheek and did not find herself rejected, but found his strong hands grasping hers. Shyly, though she had just kissed him, she turned away, and he broke their half embrace but did not let go of one of her hands. He looked out towards the lonely mountain, which they could now see in the distance, raising his voice so the company could all hear.

“We must press on.”


	7. The Parting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TLDR: Captured in Mirkwood; Thranduil knows more than he's saying and his hands are saying a lot

As the news spread through the cells, the dwarves erupted into protest that one of their company would be separated from them. She could make no show of the despair she felt, but couldn’t help attempting to see around her guard as she was led away to seek Thorin. He was at his cell bars, face pressed to them and one arm outstretched as if he could pluck her from their grasp if only he tried hard enough.

“Silwen!” He called, his face twisted in uncharacteristic desperation. As she was taken she shouted back, a poor attempt to comfort him, but no less genuine in her desire to reach him again.

“I’ll come back!”

It was the last she saw of him for a good amount of time.

_____________________________

Because she had no expectation of what awaited her outside the cells, Silwen steeled herself for anything, mind racing

What if she could melt through these bonds? Would it be possible to evade her captors and flee back to the cells to lead a daring escape? If it could be done, wasn’t it her duty to? Could it be? She was led into a sumptuous room and instructed to undress behind a partition; as she did, her clothes were taken and replaced with robe to cover her modesty between there and a steaming bath, where she was left to her own devices. Had she not been naked, she would have fled then and there. In hopes of the return of her clothes, she sank down into the water and began to scrub. What felt like centuries of filth steamed from her skin, leaving it glowing and pink, and after many rinses with the scented water, her hair shone again. Even her wearied muscles seemed to loosen in the enveloping heat. By the time she had wrung the water from her hair, she found that a linen to dry herself with and a dress had been laid out for her. It was a simple garment, a purplish grey slip of silk.

A voice.

“How long it’s been.”

It was the elf king in all of his shining grace. Thinking nothing of the tender treatment she’d been given since she had been removed from the cells, Silwen ached for her sword, thinking to point it at his beautiful throat.

“How dare you.” She snarled, only the tiniest thread of fear keeping her from hurling herself at him and beating him with her very hands like an animal. “You have no right to imprison us here!” In her anger, she did strike out at him, only to have her wrist caught mid blow- not to be deterred, she struck out with her other hand and found it stuck just as fast in an iron grip.

“I have every right. You and your company are intruders within my borders and therefore under my dominion.” He was tall, impossibly so, towering head and shoulders over her. He bent so they could be face to face, his light eyes seeming to glow with triumph. “Oh, Siladhriel.” He murmured. She stared at him blankly and again jerked at the grip he had on one of her wrists. He searched her face but found no trace of recognition beyond animosity. “Do you not recognize me, Siladhriel? Have shackles and time worn away those memories? Nearly an age has changed you, but I sensed that it was you. Traveling with a company of cast offs and nobodies, no less.”

“You are mistaken, I have never had the displeasure to meet such a contemptible elf in my life.” She spat, vexed and in no mood for him to hurl insults at her friends. He hissed at the taunt, releasing one of her arms so that he could drag her to a long silver mirror set into the wall. Yanking her flush to him as if she was no more than a leaf, he held her there despite her struggles.

“Look.” He demanded, taking hold of her chin and forcing her to look in the mirror. With a sudden flush of heat, she seemed to grow in his arms; a woman stood there entrapped, a beautiful glowing woman with hair wrought of the finest silver and heavily lidded eyes that matched. Barring the Lady Galadriel herself, she was the most ethereal creature Silwen had ever seen, a far cry from her own stocky frame and common features. She stamped in an effort to get away, but when he forced her to look once more she responded coldly to this apparition, refusing to show any amount of pleasure towards anything the elf king could show her.

“Who is she?”

“You.” He said, simply. Instantly, she rebuked the idea. Who was this that he projected onto her? Had he suffered some loss and chosen her as his sick surrogate- a vessel empty enough to be filled and formed into a false replacement?

“My name is Silwen. Your magic is an unkind illusion.”

“Gandalf told you that, didn’t he? Likely when you were a child, giving you some common name and asking you never to question it. Did you never wonder when the ages of the world began to pass, and you remained unchanged? What daughter of man lives untouched by time as those around her wither and grow old?” He spun her around and somehow he didn’t seem as terrifyingly tall, as if she had grown in the short time between now and her previous attack on him.“I know what you desire, deep inside yourself.” He continued. “I know what you covet more than more than valor, more than companionship....more than freedom even.”

“I am loyal to my king, its the completion of his quest that I desire, in all my efforts.” She said, and wrenched her face from his grip, voice sharp and haughty. For a moment he looked taken aback before a soft laugh escaped his lips, one eyebrow quirking into a very skeptical position.

“Your king? Are you a dwarf now, that you would have loyalties to that fool?” Once again his eyes hardened.

“I do not believe for one moment that you took upon this quest out of the kindness of your heart, nor out of pity. You have never once held pity for another creature.” The accusation cut deeply because it was true- at least in the beginning. Before she had grown to know and love her companions in travel and hardship, she had taken it on out of selfish reasons. Promise of release from the hutch that she had woven herself into over the years, and promise of treasure. Oh, of the untold treasures....

He leaned close, his hand wrapped half around her throat, his finger slipping behind her ear and thumb pressing against the soft, vulnerable hollow where her neck met chin. “I know what you are, Siladhriel.” He murmured. “As long as you are contained in that low form, it suppresses your nature. As you have been chained, I can release you.” Another wave of warmth spread throughout her body- this time a liquid pain that made her feel as if her very skin were stretching to make way for new muscle and bone. She jerked in his grip, even her jaw seeming to expand like that of a snake as she opened her mouth to release a noise of pain- sharp teeth were revealed there and the voice that emerged was not her own, a low, deep bay.

“Do you feel it now?” He asked, holding her tighter as she buckled in his grip, writhing as her body seemed to struggle within itself what form to contain. Images flashed before her empty eyes that could not be from memory, of fire and voices. She felt so weak, her joints liquid and staticky and moments from giving way entirely. Finally her form settled once more into grace, but still she burned from her skin to her organs. Each exhale felt like steam and soon she was gulping in air to cool herself, face upward as if drowning. He caught her as she began to sink to the floor, guiding her to the bed where she collapsed in a puddle of molten silver.

“Do you feel it eating you from the inside out, like a sickness? A fever?” He asked, brushing her hair away from her face with the back of his hand and cupping her cheek. “You’re on fire.” His murmur felt cool against her ear because he indeed was right. “You are fire. The most beautiful star I would have for my collection.”

“Make it stop.” She gasped. With every breath she seemed to shine brighter, as dazzling as the jewels that drilled covetousness deep into her heart like a vile worm. Need devoured her, her sense nearly fled.

“You’re shaking....I can feel your hunger for it. To spend your days wrapped in starlight as you once did.” He asked, so close in her ear. She could not see him, eyes filled with the brightness of the heavens. He stroked her hair as if she were a beloved pet, his voice ponderous. “You cursed thing. Beautiful, cursed thing. Stay here and you will have anything you ever desired. I see your heart, and it is twisted. If you ever reach the mountain, you or they will die. You’ll turn against them, I know you feel it.”

Saruman’s accusation against her resurfaced in her memory- the shapeless dangers he’d warned Gandalf against.

“I won’t!” She whispered, voice hoarse with effort. She refused. She had left cruelty behind. Tried so hard to be human when she didn’t feel as if she could be, tried so hard for so many years to train herself to show false kindness until the real thing had implanted into her heart. She tried to claw her way out of the illusion, recalling the faces of every dwarf of the company, of Gandalf- of Thorin and how he had struggled when they took her. Things that were solid and real and trapped without her help in some dungeon. Coming awake, she found herself twisting in his grip. He had her wrists. Again he seemed impossibly tall and she knew she was herself once more. “You don’t know me. You don’t know who I am, you don’t know!” Did she though?

“I saw you created, Siladhriel. I know what you are better than yourself.” He said,“I would complete what’s been started and ensnare you here if I could.”

“A pet. At your beck and call for whatever amusement you desire?

  
“A crown jewel.” He countered.

“A commodity!”

“Yes.” He said. “In exchange for your company’s freedom.” Suddenly, she fell still, staring. The offer changed the situation entirely, her heated brain only registering that Durin’s day was fast approaching and the company must be freed. In the sudden burst of hope it gave her, she little remembered that she would not be with them to see it. “You could do far worse.” He said, and she knew it was true. Still she hesitated, calculating dishonestly and knowing that he would likely do the same. There was nothing preventing her from attempting an escape as soon as the dwarves were released and a safe distance away from Mirkwood.

“I agree.” She said.

“How quick you were to change your mind for that price.” He mused. Flustered, she squirmed in his grip, entirely unsure of what she had agreed to, only desiring the expected reward for her sacrifice.

“I have agreed, now release my hands! And my company! Ill do whatever you wish, just let them be on their way peacefully.” Had he not expected her to give in to his terms?

“You must tell him yourself.” He said. A spike of despair drove itself into Silwen’s heart when she saw that the inevitable was immediately unavoidable. He couldn’t do this to her. Not this kind of humiliation, not when she’d already admitted that he’d won. Denial had partly held her resolve to say yes in the first place, but under the threat of something like betrayal for freedom it was beginning to waver. He did release one of her hands, but she was still unable to wrest herself from his grip entirely. His free hand slid the length of her heaving body and under the hem of the borrowed elven dress, slowly taking the outside of her thigh. Tasting what was yet to come.

“Tell who?” She lied quite boldly and badly, eyes wide and brow furrowed deeply with worry. Thranduil almost smiled, his silver eyes as intent upon her as a cat’s about to savor a particularly rare, colorful bird.

“The one who put the dwarvish courting braids in your hair. Don’t deny it. You think yourself human enough to love, don’t you? Is that where this misplaced loyalty is coming from?” He asked, taking her chin in his hand and forcing her to look at him when she tried to look away. “Is it Oakenshield? He has always been quick to lay foolish claim to things that still stink of dragon.” He said, slipping the wooden bead from her braid. She tried to stop him, but he restrained her still, unraveling her braid.

“No, give that back! Is that what this is about? Some vendetta against Thorin?” She hissed, anger her last righteous defense. Every moment, he took a little more of Thorin from her. Only the reminder of what was at stake kept her from screaming and struggling for release, denying that she’d cooperate in any way. Again Thranduil’s long fingered hand was at her throat, not yet tight enough to choke, but enough to make her splutter into silence, head tilted back to receive precious air.

“Oakenshield is injudicious and untrustworthy; he has denied me the heirlooms of my people which I am rightfully owed- but you,” He breathed emphasis into the word as if it were at once toxic and beautiful, “You owe me more than my vanity, Siladhriel.”

When he spoke as if they knew each other nothing made sense, but as the depth of her situation became clearer she was beginning to lose strength. As she lost the ability to breathe the beautiful room became even softer, her body weaker. More complacent in its hopelessness and inability to fight back against the hand that was unraveling the soft girdle of her borrowed dress.

“Am I not a merciful king?” It was not a demand, but coaxing. “Tell me.” He released her and she could breathe again, gasping a few times. She had to swallow hard before she could make out words, terrified by the cool air suddenly against her skin as the silken fabric of the dress began to slide away from it. He would doubtlessly take if it was not given willingly, so perhaps if she said what he wanted to hear it may at least end quicker.

“You are....merciful.” This was merciless. The hand upon her breast, exploring, was not Thorin’s, and she hated herself for it.

“Open your mouth” His voice was gentle but cold, expectant. She did and he wet his fingers there, tracing his other hand down fading bruises that the road and Thorin’s mouth had left. The difference between their frames was quite clear- standing, she didn’t even come to his shoulder- and in that moment she found herself afraid that he might injure her. Her, Silwen, frightened of pain? She tried to control her erratic breathing, tried to stop her shaking. _Your pain will release them._ She had gone through flame and darkness for Thorin and would do so again. He would never forgive her- that agony, she could not face now- but physical affliction she could gladly cope with.

But she did not have to. Faintly reaching even these secluded quarters, the alarm. They both heard it, Thranduil withdrawing his hands from her immediately and leaving her to clutch the vestment back to her body. _The dwarves are escaping._

All agreements broken without their bargaining tools present and accounted for, Silwen took her chance and sprang from the bed, bare feet carrying her almost to the door of the chamber before Thranduil’s much longer stride overtook her. Silver hair swirling about him like a sheet of silk, he struck out with the back of his hand, the force of the great blow sending her into the wall. He held her there pinned under his arm and for a moment all illusions between them were glass and his face transformed; half remained ageless, beautiful and untouched, the other half was revealed scarred and stretched, flesh held together with magic and great agony, his eye ice white. Something harkened to her, a spark like memory of terrible fire.

“Vile beast, if you will not submit willingly, then I can just as easily have you kneel in chains!” He snarled, eyes cold and teeth bared in a way that revealed how truly feral the folk of the forest could be.

“Not so vile as to be excluded from your bedchamber, elvenking.” She said, the daring of her own words surprising her as she bought the time to catch her breath. “Perhaps what greed you accuse of others lies more deeply in your own heart to covet the thing you claim I am.”

His fury was electric and immediate. He carried no sword into his inner chambers, but drew a short silvan dagger from some hidden place, meaning to punish her quite thoroughly by a drawing of blood. Truly now she felt her life endangered- bladeless, she fought back with her hands. Pushing back with all of her vigor, to her surprise she forced the towering elf backwards. Strength surged through her like never before, no longer afraid of consequences to her company should she dare use magic against him. Gripped with power, she raised her voice against him and the palace seemed to quake about them, the din of the alarm fading out as it was replaced by her chant. She forced upon him visions of the inferno she felt coursing through her veins and what fear the coldest of hearts might feel- Thranduil was no common orc or impotent man, but noble of a race that held magic inherent- the spell held him at bay long enough for her to force the door open and escape through it, but her steps were not unpursued.

The alarm was fading as the dwarves undoubtedly escaped further and further- each pounding footstep, each hammering heartbeat was a celebration of their freedom and a desperate cry to catch up. There! There was light at the end of the tunnel, a balcony to open air- if only she could reach it. What then, she could decide if she reached it before being recaptured and likely terribly harmed for her impudence. As determined as she was, Thranduil’s stride was longer and he caught up with his prey far quicker than she would have liked, forcing engagement over flight. Only by chance did his dagger not nick her throat at the first slice, slicing through a sheaf of her hair- fear trickled cold in Silwen’s heart as she felt how closely it kissed her, each heartbeat pulsing icy as she struck each blow aside barehanded, deflecting the blade with bursts of shining light.

Again, she raised her voice to him, using the most forceful of the spells she knew might keep him at bay

“Fire bind you, Thranduil Elvenking- I cast you from my sight!”

This was no pure light but a burst of glowing darkness that hit him heavily in the chest, casting him from his feet and down the long hallway to crack the opposite wall. Breath heaving inside her like wind in a barrel, she cast her voice after him as well, should he chance to be conscious to hear her.

“No man nor elf owns me, king or not! I am my own to command.”

She leapt.

______________________________________

 

Truthfully she hadn’t known what to expect, half mad with desperation and half driven by some deep seated, ancient instinct. No sooner than her feet left the ledge she was no more, the elvish clothing tore to shreds as her form twisted and unfurled into that of a great white dragon. She could hear Thranduil somewhere behind her call to fire, to bring her down, and she felt the grasp of arrows at the softer hide of her underbelly, but she was as swift as the wind, smashing through trees and stone and bursting into the bright air like a creature seeking air from the depths of the sea.

_______________________________________

Silwen had seen the last of the company escape the borders of Mirkwood, but she didn’t dare touch down in the form she was in to join them on foot; the singlemindedness that had caused her to heedlessly jump into empty space was replaced with a different kind of panic. They must not be caught by the elves...but she could not be seen by the dwarves.

She wheeled towards the mountain. It took her far sooner to reach its shores than it might have on foot, landing like a young, clumsy gull yet unaware of the length of its wingspan. Before she could ponder how to explain this to her companions once they were reunited, she found herself wracked with chills, a low bellowing groan starting deep in her belly and fading as she arched and writhed to find herself in human form once more. It became clear that whatever magic had aided her transition had no sympathy for her nakedness and injury; the elvish garment had been obliterated by the sudden addition of a creature far too massive for it, and some of the elvish arrows that found their mark on her softer belly had left lacerations on this human form. Her herbs and supplies had been taken from her in Mirkwood, so she clotted her wounds with mud from the lake’s edge and began to walk the lands around the mountain.

As it was, she had nothing; no clothing, no shoes, no pack, and no knowledge of her company’s well being, only what rock could tell her and what hope she could carry. She did not entirely know where on the mountain she was going, and with the only company herself the silence was quite unbearable, for it left her with a great number of unanswered questions and uncomfortable truths to be faced in the days ahead. They had come, if need be, to slay a dragon, the great annihilator of the dwarves of Erebor. And yet easily, inexplicably, she had taken the unmistakable form of a great winged serpent. The very thing that denied the dwarves their homeland and families.

Images in her mind echoed back to her of things inhuman, of a different life that at once looked alien and felt familiar. Starlight and blood and foul things. There was no denying that the coldness she had long held in her heart was something greater than a foundling’s lack of understanding of love; but what greater truth she had kept tamped down for so long, she wanted to continue to deny. Alone, her companions were the sound of the wind and the grinding doubt inside her. Her own memory, own self could not be trusted. At a time like this she desired so strongly council with Gandalf to ease her mind.

Thorin must never know what terrible mistakes had led her to this point- though truthfully what she knew only scratched the surface of them. Suddenly she found herself almost glad that Thranduil had removed the courting braid that Thorin had given her, knowing that she didn’t deserve it, and that thought struck her with such a great pain that she almost stumbled. But she had to keep climbing. She’d gone through too much to give up now.

 


	8. The Death of Smaug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TLDR: This is the chapter I was hinting about the whole goddamn time

It felt like days that she climbed, her nakedness covered by only mud and her fear running high. What if she got there and they had already tried to confront the dragon? What if, what if. It wasn’t until nightfall that she found evidence of the dwarves right outside what looked like a cleverly disguised crack in the mountainside. She clawed her way inside, pushing past pieces of broken stone and squirming into a tunnel. She followed it for a while, bare feet making pattering noises in the dark, until torchlight shone from the other end. What she saw sent her into simultaneous throes of joy and sweet despair. Inside the mountain the stone ran with literal rivers of gold, vast mountains of it, with every imaginable jewel sparkling amidst it like stars, so many stars. Sapphires indistinguishable from ice, opals that shone with white fire like stars, and diamonds with a living sun inside each.

She fell to her knees, sickened a violent, greedy clench within her deepest self, like the most terrible hunger pangs. So warm. So bright. Naked as she was, she could lay in this hoard for a thousand years and desire nothing but the pleasure of gazing upon it undisturbed. Every moment felt indeed as it were an age, intoxicated. She wondered where the white jewels were that Thranduil craved, for they were also her heart’s desire. To wear them and bask and be lost. It was this that took her to her feet, at once enraptured with her surroundings and driven to find them so she could bathe in their light. She wandered until the heard the rumbling heart of the mountain alive, vast forge fires and the crashing of mining equipment. It couldn’t be manned, not with so few as fourteen. The noise led her away from the treasured halls and across walkways of stone suspended in the air, into dimness; soon cries and shouts were mingled with the noise and she began to hasten, shaking off the fog that had enveloped her in the valleys of gold. Thorin’s voice rang out deep and clear, a bellow of rage like metal against stone.

“Here! You witless worm! I am taking back what you stole.”

Silwen heard his voice and through her haze she ran to him, racing across the suspended walkway and into a small transitional hall, stopping in the shadows of shadows as the gallery of the kings opened up to her. From where she stood, the great dragon was the centerpiece and his prey was hardly visible standing far above what kept his attention. The hall was a great hollowing of the mountain, a celebration of air, but the serpent’s head could have easily touched the ceiling had he reared up on his hind legs. Truly, he was larger than any creature than Silwen had ever witnessed, but her attentions were stolen by the same thing that kept Smaug stunned. The largest structure of gold crafted by dwarvish hands in any age, a glowing figure bearded and crowned, taller and wider than the dragon himself.

It was beautiful, dragon enraptured, Silwen enthralled. But something had gone wrong; alarmed shouts in khuzdul rang about the hall- Thorin swayed on his perch, within the reach of Smaug who was beginning to shake himself from the glamour the dwarves had woven. Where she was she could hardly see Oakenshield, but she could clearly see the scales of Smaug’s belly begin to glow like livened coals, snapping her from her dazed glow. Everything compounded into this single moment; a choice between the worm of covetousness in her heart or the very thing that now made it beat.

“Thorin!” She cried out for him, voice echoing down the chambered hall and he sought her but could not source her voice.

Fighting every instinct inside her she put one foot in front of the other, and then the other, breaking quickly into a run towards danger, towards her king. He called for her and she leaped through the doorway and once more into peril. It wasn’t a conscious decision, one breath woman and the next monster, her teeth sinking into Smaug’s armored neck by element of surprise. There was a tremendous roar as the behemoths clashed, the weight of their combined bodies flying into the far wall of the gallery crumbling the columns.

_________________________

Drenched in sweat and grime but somewhat safe where he was above the hall, Thorin could barely comprehend the scene of chaos in front of him. One ivory and the other rust, two dragons grappled before him, tails and limbs whipping dangerously and smashing the walls. The white was smaller than Smaug, barely more than half his size, swinging her body on top of his and ripping, clawing, biting. There was no record or memory of a second dragon in the mountain, nor in Gandalf’s warnings-

Could he have been dreaming Silwen’s voice at a moment like this? A flailing tail sliced into the soft outer layer of the statue and Thorin was reminded of the trap that laid in wait inside. He couldn’t begin to understand what was happening, but something told him that this thing that defended them was her.

“No!” He cried out, reaching, but there was nothing that he could do. It began to melt.

_________________________

The first spray of liquid gold burnt like a brand, but it was nothing compared to the tidal wave of molten metal as the statue disintegrated, collapsing under its own weight and heat. The searing flood crashed over the wrestling beasts, washing them further down the hall and under the impossible weight of the metal- a cacophony of shrieks and howls filled the space as it took them both. It burned like a thousand forges and agony swept over Silwen as she was dragged down, forced under as Smaug scrambled to use her body to reach the surface like a drowning man.w

Unmercifully it was not this that took her. She fought her way to the surface before her breath ran out, spraying gold as she sought to free herself from the heavy pool. But as she had wrested herself from the molten grip of burning metal, so had Smaug.

“Deceit! Usurpers! I will not be overcome by this! I will have revenge!” He howled, thrashing and screeching in pain. Dragging herself by columns and stretching of wings, the white dragon launched herself through the air, meaning to again attack, but he caught her neck in his terrible jaws and used the momentum to heave her through the stone shell of the mountain itself. She crashed through the very entrance of Erebor and tumbled heavily to a stop on the rocky lowland outside, the world fiery with pain and spinning. Cat eyes blinked and tracked across the night sky rapidly, trying to clear their vision- ribs crackling and lungs under leather skin heaving like forge bellows. Gold rained down on her and the shoreline as Smaug arrowed through the newly made opening in the mountain and took to the air, shedding it like coins.

“He’s heading to Laketown!”

It was Bilbo’s voice, panicked and faint. Laketown. She remembered the maps. The last of the men of Dale. Smaug had taken the fortress of Erebor in a day- he would slaughter the people of Laketown with ease. With a bellow’s breath, Silwen pushed herself to her feet and then into the air. Several of the company had made it to the broken entrance of the mountain, including Bilbo and Thorin, and they were almost knocked to the ground by the gale of her wings. Reaching as far as her neck would stretch, she snapped her teeth viciously into Smaug’s tail, distracting him like a dog baiting a bear. Their flight did not halt, but rather they tumbled across the sky, Silwen using her small size to her advantage; airborne, and as long as Smaug did not catch her, she was a vexation with teeth and claws, biting and scratching the whole way.

“What manner of dog are you, to consort with dwarves and men?” He snapped, roaring with pain as one of her hind spurs sliced a gash in his haunch. Silwen did not answer because she was neither dog nor proper consort; she no longer knew what she was, simply what course of action she must follow. Narrowly, she avoided a spurt of fire, meeting it with her own and lighting the entire lake’s surface as though they were the sun above. They danced like this in a spiral, up, up. When it cleared, his great toothy grin was in front of her rather than a safe distance away. “There you are, little worm.” He said, his clawed hand gripping her at the shoulder near her wing, talons piercing- she screamed. Thrashing made it worse, so she blinded him with fire and he dropped her to protect his eyes, winging backwards. Immediately she dropped like a stone, wings tangling as she spun out. She splashed down in shallows, the icy water mercifully numbing her wounds. Her vision again danced and flamed.

Fire. They had been so close to Laketown. Finished with her, he was beginning to set it ablaze. From here she could hear the screams. She tried to get up, splashing about like a wounded albatross, and found that Smaug’s claws had sheared through her wing at the shoulder. Pushing off from the mud of the shallows was hard enough, but not only was her wing in agony, she physically could not force it to work through the pain. There was nothing to catch the air. The tower bell of Laketown rang in alarm, but no one was coming to save them.

_I will not let people die because of my failure._

Panting, she flung herself deeper into the water, doggy paddling with her hind legs and dragging her injury behind her. As she neared the town she found it chaos, but Smaug was no longer blasting the entire region with destruction, his movements seemingly focused on two small figures at the very top of the very bell tower that called their distress. She could not fly, but Smaug was flying low and the buildings in the center of town were high; she clawed into the wood of the closest to the tower and hoisted herself from the water, body trembling as her overtaxed shoulder pulled her upwards. As the bell clamored she climbed, keeping to the shadows lest Smaug catch wind of her survival too early, using talons and the spur on her one good wing to scale the structure like a nightmare ghost. The higher she climbed the more she could see of the two figures he tormented- at one point, a great spear-like arrow ricocheted off of Smaug’s jeweled hide and stuck itself deep into the place where she had sought to place her claw a moment before. She used it to pull herself higher, listening to Smaug’s taunting voice as he played with his victims.

“Now that is a pity. What will you do now, bowman? You are foresaken. No help will come. Is that your child? You cannot save him from the fire...He will burn.” He purred, crushing building after burning building underclaw as he stalked forward. Soon in the flickering light Silwen could see the end; a single archer and a young boy at his aid, bow broken. She was almost there. “Who are you that would stand against me? You have nothing left but death!”

She leapt, flapping and gaining no great amount of height but just enough to latch onto Smaug’s back like some insane rider of foul things. Unlike her, Smaug was covered on all sides, his skin encrusted with jewels where he was not scaled; it hadn’t been until she saw him in the right angle through the fire that she saw the missing scale on underbelly. It was what the bowman was aiming for. Taking him by the back of the neck, she clamped down and pushed with both sets of feet, latched in with claws so Smaug’s body was bent in a backwards arc, struggling and roaring to be set free. Her jaws ached and shoulder screamed as he thrashed, but his belly was bared and his missing scale was exposed. She knew she could only hold him like this for seconds before he wrenched free and finished her off, but one clear shot was all the bowman needed.

The arrow flew true.

Claws locked into the larger beast, she was swept up and away with Smaug as he attempted to escape it, but the iron had pierced his breast. The fire within him died and the light went from his eyes with a terrible scream that could be heard across the whole of the lake- pulling her claws from his hide with great difficulty, Silwen fell apart from him, closing her eyes as the fire ravaged town rose up to swallow them.

Both fell creatures would die here.


	9. Grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TLDR: Surprise, Galadriel was involved the whole time!

_Siladhriel.....return to me, Siladhriel._

All about her ice white, Silwen was blind and unfeeling, frozen and bodyless. She recognized this voice, this honey sweet voice, purer than anything made from silver or gold. It spoke to her soothingly, pulling her limbs into awareness.

_You have made a sacrifice worthy of grace, but while your first test is won there are still many tests yet to come._

Her lips parted to speak Lady Galadriel’s name, to question the meaning of her words, but what came out was a swell of lakewater. Suddenly Silwen was present, painfully awake in her body and aware of her surroundings. Screams of the wounded came from about her, a young girl nearby crying for her father. Half pinned under a slab of wood, Silwen was lying on the lake shore surrounded by washed up wreckage of the town and its survivors, more and more water coming up from her lungs like fire. She had likely lain concealed there all night, for it appeared to be almost midmorning, the mists clearing from the lake. Laketown was a very small town- she doubted they wouldn’t notice if there was a stranger in their midst; she scanned the shore for a way out of this and found it in the most unlikely way.

Bofur. It couldn’t be, but there he was, grabbing an oar and preparing a boat. How could he not be at the mountain? She tracked his movement and Oin was with him, obviously getting ready to leave. She had to let them know she was there. Walking to the mountain in her condition was not wise. Moving was agony and as she lifted the wood to climb out from under it, she screamed, but it only blended with the cries of the other wounded. Reaching only feet from where she’d lain, she stripped the wet coat from the body of a man who had been larger than her, forcing herself not to look at the body’s face as she did so; it was soaked, but it was clothing, and she had to go. Now. She climbed to her feet and found that they worked, cold and numb as they were.

“Bofur!” She called, trying her best to jog towards them, the overly long coat slapping at her legs as she did. “Don’t leave me behind!” They held the boat from taking off and she splashed in after them, letting them haul her in by her good arm. They seemed overjoyed to see her, and she them, though she was far too exhausted to anything more energetic than smile.

“Lass, we thought we’d lost you for good in Mirkwood!” said Bofur, “We tried to stall, but we only had one window. Don’t suppose you could forgive us.”

“Nothing to.” She answered, gratefully burying herself in a hug among as many of the dwarves as she could reach without pressing against her wound

“We had troubles of our own escaping- Kili was struck with a poison arrow and if it weren’t for that elf guard, he’d be dead.” Fili said, beginning to help row them towards the mountain.

“It’s fine, we had Tauriel.” Kili’s voice was almost musical, filled with worship. He had the sweaty bangs of someone who’d just come out of a long fever, but his eyes were filled with starlight.


	10. Dragon Sickness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TLDR: Thorin is seriously testing Silwen's patience

As they entered the mountain Silwen was struck once more with the beauty of all that glittered inside the stone. Heaps upon heaps of it, the floor barely visible under scintillating jewels and shimmering gold. Thorin was there, safe- in the middle of it and dressed in kingly robes, striding through his kingdom as if reclaiming his birthright with every blessed step. Bedecked in gold, he seemed unlike himself to Silwen, and as they grew closer there was a light in his eyes that she had never seen before. A fever. He did not seem to know that they were there.

“Gold.” He began, softly. “Gold beyond measure….. Beyond sorrow and grief.” He paused then as if contemplating these concepts. Then looked up to where they stood. “Behold - the great treasure hoard of Thror.” Suddenly, he flung something high into the air towards them- Fili was the fastest and caught it before it landed, holding it to the light. A blood red jewel the size of a man’s fist. “Welcome, my sister’s sons, to the kingdom of Erebor.” He said, flinging his arms out so they might feast upon this glory as he did. Silwen wanted to shrink from the treasure- to run screaming from this wretched temptation, but instead she went to Thorin. It seemed a battle to recognize her as he had known her, and she knew that something in him knew.

“Would you speak with me?” She asked. He cast a look to the others as if he were the one keeping secrets, taking her thankfully by the good arm and ushering her away as if what must be said must be kept private. Nervously, she followed him- partially unable not to because his grip was iron. Once they were in an adjoining tunnel he released her and there was silence between them.

“What manner of agent of darkness are you?” He accused, finding words.

“None!” She protested; she went so unwillingly towards anything that was not him, how could he not see that by now?

“What honey coated lies have you fed me so easily this whole time? Slipping so easily into my company, into my bed.”

It felt like a slap in the face.

“You pay me insult when I’ve-? Please! You must believe me!” She strove for words but none could truly come to her rescue. He was maddened.

“How can you speak of insult when you’ve kept this from me? How many days? Until we are devoured as we sleep?” He snarled, grabbing her by the collar of her coat and slamming her against the stone wall. Her wrecked shoulder absorbed most of the shock, a throbbing wave of feverish agony radiating outwards through to her other injuries- she tried to scream, but she felt so weak that it came out a whistle from somewhere in her throat. Lifting trembling fingers, she fumbled and managed to unbutton enough of the coat to show the beginnings of her injuries hidden beneath. The claw marks in her shoulder had mercifully stayed proportional to her body, but the flesh around the angry red wounds was starting to puff and turn white. It was turning ill already. Seeing it, Thorin immediately released her collar and she sighed with relief from some of the pain, tears of pain slipping silently down her face.

“Did you not also contract a sorceress? A bowman in Laketown felled Smaug as I held him ready for the shot. Your mountain is won also with my pains…..as I promised.” Her voice was low. She had little left in her to fight Thorin right now so begging him seemed to be her only option. Even if he could be reasoned with, there were things that were he of sound mind he would still find displeasing about her. “I want none of this gold, and none of the sickness it puts inside me.” She pleaded, “I swear, I didn’t know until I saw it, and I chose you over it.”

Somewhere inside her she had the horrible notion that she always might have known- that it had always been lurking inside her, just beneath the surface. Maybe. It was unclear if what now bubbled through the murk was imagination or if it was simply too horrible that she must deny that it could be true memory. But her loyalties were true. Through an age and through battle with the foulest of creatures she had not fallen, but to this king she bowed, for he had captured her thoroughly and she would not give him up now. Never before in all her days had Silwen begged, but she did now.

“Thorin….I have held to every word; do not abandon me, not now.” She pleaded, reaching out to touch his face. Her fingers halted as if afraid that he were only a shade and touching him would break the spell, but as she searched within his eyes she saw him. A look came into them as if inside him there were a man with a lantern raised, somewhere deep within a tunnel. He was far off, but he could see her through his haze. She stiffened when he sought sought the edges of her coat again, but his rough hands merely grasped the extra fabric of the too-large sleeves and brought her gently in close, not quite hugging.

“Oh, Silwen…” He breathed, mumbling a soft phrase in Khuzdul. “I am so sorry…Amrâlimê…forgive me for doubting you.” Again she was wrapped in his voice as if nothing were amiss. She worked her fingers through the furs slung about his frame, grasping tightly. She would not let him go to the same madness that had threatened to take her. “Leaving you behind maddened me.”

“Trust you cannot be rid of me, Oakenshield.”

fingering affectionately through her hair, but he seemed to notice one more thing out of place in her ragtag apparel and battered appearance.

“Your braids. Where is your bead?” He asked. There was no hesitation in her voice, for it was not a lie.

“The elves, they took my things from me.” Carefully, she took his hand. It was not the hand that she was accustomed to, bedecked now with noble rings, but she placed it upon her heart nonetheless. “I beg that you see me worthy of their reproduction.”

He smiled and his blue eyes were warm in the torchlight. It had been long since she had seen him smile, before they had reached the borders of Mirkwood.

“Worry not, I will adorn you with any decoration here that you desire.” He said, and worry she did. He was beginning to slip away again into the grasp of the hoard. “Come,” he said, “I’ll have Óin help you attend to your wounds. We all must rest and recover our strength.”

She nodded, wiping away the tear marks that betrayed her true injury.

____________________________

Half starved and on her last leg, Silwen slept deep and long once she had eaten and her injuries were bound. Some unknown time later, she awoke alone and to a sense of foreboding heavy on her mind, arm and back stiff. Óin had found the herbs she required, but she was too weak to perform any magics upon herself and was thus condemned to the long and unsure wait of natural healing. It had been easier than expected to find clothing in her size, for even though Erebor was a Dwarvish kingdom, it had also been a center of trade. A pair of men’s trousers and loose cotton shirt were comfortable enough to allow her to move as she was; she changed the dressings on her wounds and pulled the clothes on, then seeking the other half of her empty bed.

Her heart fell when she found him where she expected him to be; the vast suspended throne, its inlay cracked in half and jewel missing. Balin, Dwalin, and Bilbo were in council with him, but it did not seem to be going in their favor.

“-and yet, it is still not FOUND!” Thorin’s voice grated against stone on the last word- Bilbo shuffled nervously back a few steps and Balin came forward a few, attempting to reason with Thorin. He seemed older in this light, exhausted.

“Do you doubt the loyalty of anyone here?” Balin asked, gesturing as if clearly, he would see sense if he only looked. “The Arkenstone is the birthright of our people.” This displeased Thorin. He stalked forward, eyes fixed upon Balin.

“It is the King’s jewel.” He corrected, his voice raising to a shout. “AM I NOT THE KING?”

Silwen’s heart fell deeper and deeper through the pit of her chest until it was lost somewhere in her stomach. This was not the Thorin she knew.

———————————————————

Funnily, Silwen had returned to the storage rooms where the herbs were sealed because it somehow felt like if she could hide, she could deny what was happening. She dared not step foot in the treasure halls, nor look at a single coin, lest the same covetousness that gripped Thorin take sway over her again. It was there she found Balin, sitting quietly among measuring scales, breathing as if she had caught him weeping.

“Dragon sickness-” he said. “I’ve seen it before. That look. That terrible need. It is a fierce and jealous love, Silwen. It sent his grandfather mad.” He said, eyes wetting even as he dried them. It was still a thing she was learning- to comfort, but nonetheless she sat beside him and laid her hand upon his knee.

“I know of what it can do.” There was a silence for a moment, and when she finally spoke, her voice was near a whisper. “What have we done, Balin, engaging upon this quest? Did we lead him to this end?”

“Nay, lass, it had to be done. There was no way to know, and the mountain had to be re-taken.” He said, finally drying his eyes. She wished for wisdom that she herself did not have, and in the absence of Gandalf she looked to her next best companion for it, hoping the answer was something that she could accomplish.

“What can we do?”

“Perhaps it is best that the stone remains lost, and we can wait for his fever to cool like any illness.” He answered grimly. Silwen didn’t know what to say to that, but her train of thought was interrupted by a clamor from above them- a thundering call to the gate.

The survivors of Laketown were coming into Dale.

___________________________________

The moment that Thorin had discovered life in the ruins of Dale, he had ordered the entrance that the dragons had broken to be shorn back up. The dwarves carried stone by hand and machine, building seamlessly. Thorin did not discard his kingly robes or roll up his sleeves to work alongside his kin, instead pacing like an agitated cat.

“I want this fortress made safe by sunup. This mountain was hard won - I will not see it taken again.” He called, making himself heard over the crashing of stone and tapping of hammer and chisel. Again this was not the dwarf Silwen knew and as with all things that pushed against her heart, she pushed back.

“They are refugees, not an invading army!” She said, looking around for support. Kili was the first to drop the stone he was holding, facing his uncle the same

“She’s right. The people of Laketown have nothing. They came to us in need. They have lost everything.” He said. There was no pity in Thorin’s voice.

“Do not tell me what they have lost. I know well enough their hardship.” He said. As he faced the city of Dale and looked to the fires that had been lit there, he delivered his sermon to them in a voice unlike his own. “Those who have lived through dragonfire should rejoice. They have much to be grateful for.” The company cast glances to each other behind his back, but none of them dared speak out further against their leader. He whirled. “More stone! BRING MORE STONE TO THE GATE!” He shouted.

He would brick them into this mountain and their own despair.


	11. The War Council

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TLDR: Gandalf is less than helpful

She found that she could stay the sickness for short periods of time with magic; she sang to him in the common tongue and watched his eyes clear sometimes, but she could not convince him not to go to war. She lived in confusion, torn between reluctant obedience from love and passive resistance simply because _it did not seem right_. In her desperation, she created a butterfly from a chip of stone and hoped beyond hope that it would reach Gandalf before this squabble would come to a war. There were many things she wished to discuss with him- most of all, a cure for dragon sickness, as it did not seem to be the same from person to person. Nor did it seem to be permanent. She avoided anything that glimmered, just to be cautious.

The wound in her shoulder was still days fresh, so when she could not sing for Thorin and when she was not resting she was in the store rooms preparing dressings and herbs, or with Balin in the alchemist’s rooms. The dwarves were rapidly preparing for battle, sharpening axes and fitting armor. Once, seeing this turmoil might have excited her, but now Silwen felt her heart grow heavy. Luckily, in her state, Thorin doted upon her and when she appeared he gave her his attentions.

“Silwen, come here.” He called to her as soon as he saw her, and she came. He was armored magnificently from neck to toe in kingly plate, and his eyes caught the torchlight in that same darkly alluring way that enchanted her so. This was one of those moments where he seemed to be precisely in control, intensely focused on her. This was her Thorin. “Turn.” He commanded gently, and she did, heart fluttering a little. He worked his fingers through her hair, parting off a section and then braiding it, speaking under the sound of the preparations of weapons as he did so. “To replace the one you lost.” He said, clipping a shining gold bead onto the middle and the end of the braid before starting another small braid on the other side of her hair. “And this, is a gift.” Surely these were his intentions to come back to her. “A token of trust when loyalty is hard to come by.”

Her stomach dropped. She looked to him and he was no longer smiling, nor looking at her, but suspiciously at the dwarves. She touched his shoulder plate, using her best musical voice to try to snap him out of it.

“Thorin, see me.”

He could not hear her.

“I do begin to see now; I cannot be blind any longer. I am betrayed!” He said, in that moment truly sounding forsaken. “The Arkenstone.” His voice dropped to a whisper, the torchlight in his eyes grew maddened. “One of them has taken it.” She had thought the sickness could be kept at bay, but evidently she had not known enough- her workings had kept it below the surface, and even now it roiled and ate at him. His voice seemed to twist as he spoke. “One of them is false.”

If she could talk him down, sing him to sleep even, but she could lose his trust if she used her magic on him so boldly-

“They are your kin.” She said, her voice hoarse as if it had been wrung. Was she losing him more and more each passing second, or was he already gone and she had not known?

“Betrayed by my own kin.” His eyes were empty tunnels, with no reflection of light. He seemed devoured, and she despaired.

“This is not you, Thorin. The dwarf I love is strong and kind and honorable. Is treasure worth more than your honor? Is it worth more than your life??” She wished to beat at his armor, but restrained herself for the sake of favor in reasoning with what was left of him. “You made a promise to the people of Laketown- people who are now starving on your doorstep- and you would deny them your honor, only for you to be slaughtered by a host of elves!”

His face darkened and twisted, taking heavy steps back from her. He seemed to sway as if intoxicated

“This gold was hard won…it is ours…and ours alone.” He said, his words thick and syrupy. It was the voice of the dragon, and she recoiled from it. There, framed in the passageway above his head was her messenger come with word from Gandalf.

“You are maddened. It festers in you like a wound fouled- do you even see me as I stand? Do you see the danger you put your people in for a few handfuls of coin?”

“By my life I will not part with a _single_ coin. Not…one…piece of it.” He snarled. So desperately she needed Gandalf’s council, but first and foremost, Silwen could not bear to be in the same room as this infected shell of her lover- not when she had fought so hard on his behalf to no avail. She began to stride past him, mind made up to end this war before it started.

“Give my portion of the treasure to the people of Laketown to rebuild their lives. I want no piece of it; you can end this here.”    

“You will not leave this mountain.” He warned her, catching her elbow. It was her good arm, but he dared stop her, dared command her? She wrenched from his grip.

“I will do what I please, Thorin Oakenshield. You well remembered your place in this mountain, you will do well to remember who I also am.” She said, pushing past him.

“Silwen! That is a command!” He shouted after her. A command. She shut her eyes against tears and broke into a shambling run.

_________________________________

Now that the entrance had been filled with masonry, there was no way that she knew out of the mountain that was not guarded except for the little tunnel they had come by- and reaching Gandalf as he arrived in Dale from it would take her far too much time. So she took two ropes and tied them together and hoped. It was a long was down, and putting her weight on only one arm was impossible. By the time she had reached the midway point she had begun to bleed through her bandage, and as she reached the bottom her shirt was wet. No matter, her legs worked and she had no choice but to push forward. Dark cloak flapping behind her, she ran, stumbling into the night.

He was so tall and unusual that it did not take her long at all to find Gandalf, but he was hurrying so.

“Gandalf- Gandalf!” She shouted, running after him. Deeply felt, she wished to fling herself into his arms the way she did an age ago as a child- but that was many lifetimes of men ago, and by his face they had no time for hurt. Something was terribly wrong, and it showed on his face and the length of his stride.

“Silwen, I am glad to see you alive and well. I assume from the state of things the same can be said of our friends in the mountain?” He asked.

“Well can be argued. I’m in need of medicine, for myself and for Thorin. He is taken with dragon sickness, and I do not know how to break it.” She said, almost jogging to keep up. Gandalf mumbled into his beard.

“Yes, I have heard.”

“Then help me.”

He stopped then and turned to face her- he spoke in a hushed voice so no one could hear.  

“There are greater evils coming this way, Silwen. We must prepare.”

____________________

When she had left the mountain the last thing Silwen had in mind had been to take council with Thranduil Elvenking, but nor did she expect Gandalf’s news. All other thoughts were erased from her mind, even Thorin, but it was not merciful news. She, Gandalf, Thranduil, and the bowman Bard were convened in Thranduil’s lavish tent- only she and Thranduil sat, he because he was kingly and she because her energy greatly lagged. The strain of her climb and everything else was falling quite hard on her, and her face was sickly pale.

“You must set aside your petty grievances with the dwarves. War is coming! The cesspits of Dol Guldur have been emptied. You’re ALL in mortal danger!” Gandalf warned. Even as he spoke, the words had a familiar shape. Dol Guldur. They were southlands, not far, a fortress where foul things bred.

“What are you talking about?” asked Bard, his face etched with worry, but Thranduil stood and swept to a small table where he poured himself a glass of wine.

“I can see you know nothing of wizards. They are like winter thunder on a wild wind rolling in from a distance, breaking hard in alarm. But sometimes a storm is just a storm.” Thranduil said, brushing Gandalf’s concerns to the side as if he were a warbling vagrant.

  
“And sometimes a storm can take a whole town in moments.” Silwen said, finding understanding and worry in Bard’s eyes. Once, when visiting a river village nearby her cottage to trade ointments for fish, she had come to her destination to find that it no longer existed as it had been before. It was half a generation before they had entirely rebuilt. Gandalf rallied, pressing his cause.

“Not this time, Thranduil. Armies of orcs are on the move. And these are fighters! They have been bred for war. Our enemy has summoned his full strength.”

“Why show his hand now?”

“Because we forced him! We forced him when the company of Thorin Oakenshield set out to reclaim their homeland. The dwarves were never meant to reach Erebor; Azog the Defiler was sent to kill them.” He swept open a curtained panel of the tent so they could view the mountain and where it lay upon the land. “His master seeks control of the mountain. Not just for the treasure within, but for where it lies, its strategic position. This is the gateway to reclaiming the lands of Angmar in the north. If that fell kingdom should rise again, Rivendell, Lothlorien, the Shire, even Gondor itself will fall!”

Gandalf’s voice seemed to continue, but Silwen could make less and less sense of it. Her head was swimming under the weight of this, but she levered herself to her feet. Action had to be taken.

“Then we must warn the dwarves.” She said quickly, “If anything…will end..this….petty-” As the last of the blood in her head rushed away, her words became slurred, jumbling and trailing off. “it will be…”

She crumpled to the floor.

_____________________________

When she awoke the body pains that had plagued her for days were gone. She felt almost new again, finding herself in a bed within another tent and attended to by an elvish healer. They were not alone, however, a voice coming from the tent entrance and dismissing the healer.

“You owe me your thanks. Whatever possessed you to travel with wounds that great, by the time anyone had noticed you had bled entirely through that poor dwarvish dressing. It’s a miracle you didn’t lose the arm.” He said, gliding to her bedside and looking down at her. His eyes were cold and haughty as always, and she loathed being told that she owed him, but she did not deny that she had been in dire need of elvish medicine. Sitting up, she felt under the clean shirt they’d given her and around her back and felt the ridges of gruesome scars, but it was clear that she was in no more danger. “You will carry them the rest of your life.” He said, knowing her thoughts. Tired, she sat back against the many fluffed pillows. He would not dare repeat the scene in his chambers here, nor now.

“Are you pleased?” She asked. The corners of his mouth did turn upward, though he turned away from her to fetch himself another glass of elvish wine.

“The fact that you too will bear dragon scars forever, that is some sweet comfort.” He said, pouring.

“Why do you hate me so?” She asked. “Whatever quarrel you believe we have, I do not remember ever being a Siladhriel, nor do I have memory of wronging you.” She said. He poured a second glass, sitting on the edge of the bed and crossing his legs elegantly as he did so.

“You misunderstand, we have no quarrel. Perhaps I approached you in too aggressive of a manner before…Drink, and I will explain.” He offered her the second cup, and she took it even though she did not trust that winter gaze. Surely there were guards outside, and with her body repaired, her magic also would be well intact. Eyeing him mistrustfully over the rim of the cup, Silwen did take a sip and then waited for him to speak. The wine was sweet and heady and he watched that she swallowed before he spoke.

“I see your delusions still run deep. But I laud your conviction, if anything.” His eyes slid over the courting braids that Thorin had replaced in her hair that day.

“I could accuse you of attempting to weave illusions when you refuse to say what mine supposedly are. As if I have any reason to keep secrets.” She said, rightfully accusing.

“I see now your naivety runs deeper than I had known;” He answered, “Truly a blank slate.” She quirked an eyebrow at him, but he did not continue until she raised the glass again to her mouth. He stood, walking about as if bored, and for the moment that his back was turned she spit a little of it back into the cup, cautious of her wits. “I have told you before,” he continued “you are no daughter of man. The Dúnedain are nearly extinct. You have not lived your life in the shape of an elf. There are no females in the council of wizards. Did you really never wonder? Did you not lay awake in the watches of the night, questioning your essence?”

“I am a foundling,” she answered, “there are many things I have accepted that I will never know, and after nearly an age, I longer have care or need for them.”

Thranduil laid his glass down and sat this time close next to her, eyes scouring her face almost triumphantly.

“You were not found, Siladhriel, you were created.” He said. Her face must have changed, every doubt and every fear flooding across it, because his eyebrows lifted in counterfeit sympathy, his face remaining beautiful and empty. “The guardians of this world took that fell winged beast and gave you a second chance; an undeserved one, but it was no service of pity. It was a conditional bid that they could turn a weapon of the enemy to their own advantage.”

Pressed upon her again were those images- violence and greed, overwhelming avarice that emanated from her very bones. She did not want this. She knew to feel that way was wrong and she did not want to return to it. Tilting her head back, now she took a gulp of the wine hoping it would kill some of the pain, wiping her face with the back of her hand.

“A likely story…” She lied, knowing that whatever version he told her, she could feel enough of it was true. “Then what is it you want from me? Do you torture me for sport now for crimes I do not remember?”

“I know that Thorin Oakenshield has been taken by dragonsickness. And yet somehow you have avoided it.”

More wine. He watched her glass empty as more and more she despaired.

“You haven’t answered me, Elvenking. What is it you think I owe you?” She said, inspecting the brocade of the coverlet and feeling the wine begin to play on her with fingers of intoxication.

“Little more than my vanity- and now, for my kindness in your moment of need.” He said, his eyes narrowing with a smile that his lips did not echo. For a moment she could see those dreadful burns upon his face. “I know of your wretchedness in ways that Oakenshield cannot; as you had to slay Smaug or be slain, he will soon sense your nature and the essence of two dragons will again be at war. You cannot love, and you are no longer his greatest love.”

What foul words, what fear he planted in her heart- without warning, she struck out to silence him, knocking his glass of wine from his hands and to the ground.

“I will hear no more of this!” she commanded, “You know nothing of my heart, nor of the heart of any dwarf in that mountain! Each and every one of us would follow him to the very end!” She pushed her way up and out of the bed. “I will surrender nothing to the likes of you, and neither will they.”

She brushed past him and found that an unexpected visitor had been listening at the door flap of the tent.

“I feel I must be in the wrong tent, but I have to agree with her.” Bilbo said, earnestly.

_______________________________

Gandalf and Bard were fetched posthaste; Silwen did not feel that whatever Bilbo had come for, his dealings should be with Thranduil alone. He did not question why she was there, though as they waited, they spoke with their glances. As she did, Bilbo also loved Thorin and neither of them could stand what was going on in the mountain. Once the council was again gathered, Thranduil sat in one of the elegantly carved chairs and fixed Bilbo with an accusing stare.

“If I’m not mistaken, this is the halfling who stole the keys to my dungeons from under the nose of my guards.” He said. Bilbo twitched under his gaze.

  
“Yes. Sorry about that.”

  
“Do not be, Bilbo.” Silwen said, bitterly. She loved the hobbit dearly, but his overly polite nature would be the death of her yet. “Tell us why you’ve come.” There was a short silence as if he were re-considering his actions, but finally he stepped forward and put a package on the table the size of an large man’s fist.

“I came…to give you this.” He said, unwrapping it to reveal starlight. There was upset motion about the room, Thranduil rising from his seat in surprise and Silwen oppositely crashing into a chair as her gut was gripped with that terrible yearning.

“No.” She groaned.

“The heart of the mountain! The King’s Jewel.” Thranduil exclaimed.  
  
“And worth a king’s ransom. How is this yours to give?” Asked Bard. Silwen closed her eyes so she would not have to look at it. So it was this that haunted her dreams. This was the kind of starlight that poisoned her with greed and threatened her grip on whatever she had that was not monstrous. Gandalf’s gentle hand upon her shoulder felt like stone, though when she looked up to him she knew by his face that it was meant to be a comfort.

“Bilbo, put it away.” He said. Bilbo obliged, wrapping it again but leaving it upon the table. 

“I took it as my fourteenth share of the treasure.” He explained, and the innocence in his voice told Silwen that he truly believed that it was worth a fourteenth; in her heart, she knew that Thorin would not forgive him.

“Why would you do this? You owe us no loyalty.” Bard asked, searching for the catch. Through years of famine and fire, no lucky break seemed unsuspicious. 

“I’m not doing it for you. I know that dwarves can be obstinate and pigheaded and difficult, suspicious and secretive…with the worst manners you can possibly imagine, but they also brave and kind…and loyal to a fault. I’ve grown very fond of them, and I would save them if I can. Thorin values this stone above all else. In exchange for its return, I believe he will give you what you are owed. There will be no need for war!”

The wizard, king, and bowman looked at eachother, but Silwen only looked at Bilbo.

_Wherever it is you draw your strength from, little hobbit, teach me, for I fear my well is beginning to run dry._  
______________________________

Dawn was hours from breaking. Gandalf had attempted to convince Bilbo to leave these shores for some safer place, but he had refused. The hobbit was not a warrior, but he was of stout and loyal heart. Away from the wizard’s ears, he and Silwen agreed upon a meeting place where they could safely slip back into the mountain; they would not be apart from the company should light come and the forces Gandalf warned of were upon them. But before that, Silwen had greatly desired to speak with the wizard for quite some time. There were things that she would gladly live in ignorance of for the rest of her days, but in this time of strife she felt that if she must be in pain, let it all be at the once. Let her know now and go into battle awake to herself.

She sat with him upon the shore of the lake, listening to the quiet lap and swish of water and smelling the comforting familiar smell of his pipeweed. So much weighed heavily upon her mind that it took her quite some time to speak.

“What am I, Gandalf?” She asked, looking out over the lake. His eyes were kind in the torchlight as he surveyed her.

“You are… what you choose to be.” He answered, simply.

“I have not always been as I am now. I have been cruel. Unfeeling. I know deeply of alienation and avarice.” She said, gripping a shore pebble in her hand and attempting to squeeze blood from it. “Has Thranduil fed me confusion, or do I truly remember another life? I cannot be human.”

Gandalf sighed heavily into his beard.

“What Thranduil has told you is true.” He said, gently. Shrieking with frustration, she threw the pebble hard, casting it far across the water into the darkness. All of these emotions she could do without. If she had never taken this journey in the first place she could have stayed in her thatched prison yes- but one where she had never felt things so strongly like love or confusion or grief.

“What am I?” She demanded again. He stared at her and she looked up defiantly to meet his eyes, where they were locked for quite some time. Finally, he spoke.  

“You were born in the north, hatched in a valley in the eastern grey mountains.” He said, and as he spoke he could not tell if her heart sank or simply grew hard, for her eyes grew empty. “The dark lord Morgoth, maker of dragons thought that if he forged the heart of the star within a dragon’s egg, it would combine to be a beast near uncontrollable in its power- so he plucked one from the heavens and your name was Siladhriel. But you were the smallest of your brood and less foul, and so left behind to live or die. So alone you climbed from the deepest bowels of the earth and into the night, where you found the stars and remembered your kinship.” She did remember. A sense of smallness and newness and longing. “They were the first things you ever felt a kind of love for. That is why you desire white jewels greater than any others, even over gold.”

Despite this, as she brought up her muddied hands to show him, she felt more human than she ever had in her life. Desperate to know.  

“How am I like this?” She pressed, and he hemmed and hawed for a few moments under his breath before giving in, for he knew a job halfway would not do.

“It is true, you did not always know what kindness was…” He began, and she remembered. “There were some who did not take lightly the stealing of treasure, nor the razing of the earth…” She remembered fire and blood; an elvish boot upon her neck, only the size of one of her scales but it somehow strong enough to hold her steady. A sword raised high and ready to fell the killing blow. “But as you love the stars, so do the elves. By pity or premonition, you were given a punishment and chance for redemption in one. To grow as a human child; to feel their afflictions and grow in conscience. I knew that as powerful as elvish magic could be, your own strength would take over one way or another, so I took it upon myself to nudge you in the right directions over the years…”

Clearly now she remembered what a struggle those early years were; learning to create over taking, to understand what compassion was, to form a sense of self from a dark mass that was larger than the mind of a small girl could comprehend. It made sense now.

“Look at me, Silwen.” Gandalf said, breaking her from her reverie. Upon his face was that kind smile that had never ceased to comfort. He did not want her looking behind, but now and ahead. “Even to be entirely human is not to be entirely simple….You are who you choose to be. And it appears that you have chosen to be Silwen. Woods witch. Friend of halflings and Durinsfolk. Am I wrong?” He puffed at his pipe, raising wild eyebrows and daring her to argue. She could not.

“No, you are not wrong. I love them all more than I thought possible. But I fear that I may have won myself from this mountain and lost Thorin to it in the same days.”

 


	12. War Drums

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TLDR: The battle begins, Thorin is immediately on the losing side

It was first light when Silwen and Bilbo scrambled through their rat’s hole and wound up their rope; Bard and Thranduil were not far riding behind them on the road to the gate and they knew the dwarves would be gathered at the wall. Quietly, they slipped to the edges of the crowd and watched the approach. Silwen noticed that Thorin’s state did not seem to have improved; he was now wearing the heirloom crown of his people. As the clatter of hooves became clearer in the air, he lifted a bow and sent an arrow to the stone at their feet to halt their advancement.

“I will put the next one between your eyes!” He shouted, and the dwarves, fired by their king’s boldness, cheered. Thranduil’s troops responded in kind by drawing their own bows and readying a legion of arrows at the wall. Smartly, the dwarves, Bilbo, and Silwen withdrew- Thorin did not. Unthreatened, Thranduil raised his voice across the crumbling bridge to the mountain.

“We’ve come to tell you: payment of your debt has been offered…and accepted.” He said. Thorin did not withdraw his bow.  
  
“What payment? I gave you nothing! You have nothing!” He barked. Bard reached into his coat and pulled from it the Arkenstone, holding it above his head where it shimmered and caught the sunlight like clear water.  
  
“We have this.” Bard said. Silwen could see it strike Thorin like a blow, stunned. Kili was not however, and nearly launched himself over the wall.

“They have the Arkenstone? Thieves! How came you by the heirloom of our house? That stone belongs to the king!” He shouted. Bard returned the stone to his robe.

“And the king may have it,” he said, “with our good will. But first he must honor his word.”

“They are taking us for fools. This is a ruse, a filthy lie.” Thorin whispered to himself at first, but soon he was shouting. Now in the sunlight and looking upon his king as his mental state deteriorated, Balin looked older than ever before. “THE ARKENSTONE IS IN THIS MOUNTAIN! IT IS A TRICK!” Thorin roared.  
  
Bilbo stepped forward.  
  
“Bilbo, you mustn’t-!” Silwen whispered, grabbing for his sleeves, but he squirmed away, stammering as he faced the dwarf king’s rage.

“It-It’s no trick. The stone is real. I gave it to them.” He piped up. Thorin’s rage turned to betrayal, his voice dropping.  

“You…” He started but could not believe long enough to finish.  
  
“I took it as my fourteenth share.” Bilbo said. 

“You would steal from me?” The incredulity was beginning to fade from Thorin’s voice, replaced with a dangerous edge that Bilbo did not seem to hear. 

“Steal from you? No. No. I may be a burglar, but I like to think I’m an honest one. I’m willing to let it stand against my claim.”

“Against your claim?! Your claim! You have no claim over me you miserable rat!” He snarled, throwing down his bow in anger and stalking towards Bilbo. No dwarf dared stop him, but Silwen saw in his eyes intent to harm so she stepped between the two.

“Thorin, he is part of your company, a contract was signed-” She began, but he brushed her aside without even looking at her.

“You are no part of this.” He snarled, intensely focused on his prey. 

“I was going to give it to you.” Bilbo said, “Many times I wanted to, but…”  
  
“But what, thief?!”

“You are changed, Thorin! The dwarf I met in Bag End would never have gone back on his word! Would never have doubted the loyalty of his kin!”  
  
“Do not speak to me…of loyalty!” Thorin growled, an armored hand thumping his chest to accentuate his words. It was not until his next phrase that Silwen truly panicked. “Throw him from the rampart!” He shouted.

This threat was not Thorin; the fact that it looked so much like him made him so dangerous, for she was so unwilling to fight back- but now, this new creature that had taken her lover’s body threatened her friend. Snarling, Silwen fought between them, drawing her sword- she stood knowing that her skill with a blade was outmatched by Thorin’s, but she did not intend to harm him, only for him to outbluff his rage. No dwarf had made a move to seize the hobbit, disobeying Thorin and stepping backwards instead, so she addressed only him.

“You will not lay a hand on him!”

Enraged that he would be so blatantly disobeyed, he stalked forward, calling her bluff as the tip of her small sword pressed into the brocade of his robes.

“You dare draw your weapon against me in defense of this traitor?” He growled. She wondered if he still recognized her? Or would he try to harm her as well?

“I do! He has only tried to shake you from your madness, Thorin- you are unlike yourself! You have become someone else!” She pleaded. “What manner of king are you that you speak so much of loyalty, but show none yourself? Where is Thorin?” She blinked back tears, for she would stoutly show none, but her voice dropped that few could hear. “Where is my Thorin?” She asked. He would hear none of it, turning to the company that had shrunk away from the conflict behind him.

“DID NO ONE HEAR ME?” He roared, grabbing Fili’s arm to force him to obey. “Disentangle these two!” Looking sickened, Fili shook him off. “I will do it myself!” Thorin said, shoving Silwen aside and grabbing Bilbo with every intent to push him from the rampart. Knowing her blade was useless against him but unwilling to see the hobbit dropped from this great height, Silwen leapt upon Thorin like a cat.

“CURSE YOU!” He shouted, attempting to throw her off while maintaining a grip on poor Bilbo.

“Help me!” She implored the dwarves- Fili was the first to rush forward and suddenly there was a brawling jumble of them at the edge of the wall, brawny hands prying Thorin from Bilbo, Silwen from Thorin, and Bilbo from the edge.

“Cursed be the Wizard that forced you on this Company!” Thorin struggled against the mutiny, shouting madly. The voice of that very wizard reached them from the bottom of the wall, amplified like thunder.

“IF YOU DON’T LIKE MY BURGLAR…Then please don’t damage him. Return him to me! And my witch too, should you not intend to treat her as promised. You’re not making a very splendid figure as king under the mountain, are you? Thorin son of Thrain!”  
  
Remembering that he was under an audience of men and elves, as well as now Gandalf, Thorin gained some amount of control over himself, and the crowd on the wall slowly parted. Bofur rushed to help Bilbo up, pushing him away and to escape, but Silwen refused to follow once she had sheathed her sword.

“Never again will I have dealings with wizards…” Thorin said over the wall, “Or Shire-rats!” he spat after Bilbo as the hobbit clambered over the wall and to safety by a length of rope. Shifting uncomfortably in his saddle, Bard brought the focus back to dealings at hand.  
  
“Are we resolved? The return of the Arkenstone for what was promised.” He proposed. “Give us your answer! Will you have peace or war?”

Thorin bowed his head as if in deep thought and for a moment Silwen had hope; in the moment of stony silence, the same raven who had spooked her before lighted once more upon the ramparts, perching beside him. It was a signal. His lip curled.

“I will have war!”

In the distance, the thunder of a thousand feet came from over the stony hills.

________________________________

Heavily armed dwarves came from the hills in droves, led by a kingly figure riding a battle pig, its tusks encased in gold and chain heavy upon its brow. Below, Gandalf knew who could be coming to aid the company against invaders.

“Ironfoot.”  
  
The dwarves in Erebor stamped their feet and cheered, heartened to see that they were not alone. Thranduil saw the threat for what it was, calling out orders in elvish. Slowly the two armies began to march towards a field of combat. Silwen turned to Thorin, desperate.

“You cannot call for war over this. How can your first acts as king be to needlessly shed the blood the blood of your own people?” she said, grasping at his arm to get him to turn away from the wall. “Armies are coming, you need to save your efforts! Thorin!” He shook her off and took a step back, his eyes alight with madness.

“Did you not already choose your side in this battle? Go back to Gandalf and prepare for your war. I have mine to fight.” He said. Below them upon the plain, elves and dwarves were marching into battle formations. The sky above had begun to go grey and chill. Never did Silwen think anything had ever hurt her so much- no injury, no fear caused her to bleed the way his words did. Thunder growled in the distance.

“Do you cast me aside so easily?” She asked, her voice softer than she had meant. He began to turn away from her, but she would not have it. Not after all of this. She raised her voice to him, roundly shaming him in front of his kin. “How dare you go back upon your honor. I have given everything I am to you, and you stand here and tell me that greed is strong enough to stand between us? I did not know you would be the kind to use words of love and loyalty to entrap me and then cast me aside the moment you had used me to your pleasure.” Below, readying commands were being given to each legion, spears and axes coming to the ready. Thorin faced her now, ready for the fight that she was bringing- but both of them were cast to unsteady feet as the ground beneath seemed to buck, the rumble of thunder no longer in the distance but instead inside the very earth. All activities halted below as the first of the creatures emerged, enormous worms bearing row upon row of razor sharp teeth. They came from the mountains, retreating almost immediately to give way for the armies Gandalf had warned of.

Azog.  
  
The horns of the enemy sounded, legions of orcs pouring from the newly dug tunnels. The dwarvish armies were the first thing between the orcs and the mountain, quickly changing into a defensive formation as the evil flooded down the mountains towards them. Horns sounded as they changed positions, shields going up to face the enemy and spears bristling outwards.

“The elves, they’re doing nothing!” Shouted Fili.

“I’m going over the wall! Who’s coming with me?” Kili responded, beginning to hoist himself over the wall in aid of his kin- the company was few, but they shouted in return, following. Silwen unbuckled her belt, casting her sword aside.

“I will!” She said.

“All of you, stand down!” Thorin warned. The company halted, disbeleiving that this command could have come from his lips. Silwen clambered to the top of the wall, ignoring him. “This is not over between us, Silwen.” Thorin warned. She knew that at the end of this they would be in for a s0ound argument, but it was a fight she was willing to fight.

“I trust not.” She said, falling backwards without waiting for the others to make up their minds whether or not to disobey.

“SILWEN!” Thorin rushed to the wall in shock but was nearly knocked backwards by a rush of wind as the great white dragon shot up into the air and then down again towards the field of battle


	13. Last Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TLDR: Last words, and a surprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't written the battle of five armies yet because I'm a dramatic bitch and wanted to write Thorin's death first. Check later and I'll fill in the missing chapters. Look out for Part 2, which will be a Lord of the Rings fanfic

The wound on his chest sucked air and she he didn’t have much time. There was nothing she knew how to do- no herbs or magic that she knew of that would save him. Instead she stayed with him, hands clasped around his rough one, her legs freezing to the river’s surface. It hurt but she stayed, moving from panic to numbness with a velocity that seemed unbelievable. Shaking, she couldn’t get it through her head- she knew what was happening, it was right in front of her- but she couldn’t believe it. Something told her it wasn’t possible for him to die. Not now.

“We were supposed to....” She began, head bowed over him. Tears were beginning to come. She sniffed. “You were supposed to be king, and I was going to be your witch.” She said. Tears were coming faster. As it came out of her mouth she hadn’t known that she had ever been thinking it, but it felt right. “We were going to rebuild, and garden on the terraces, and take tea in the afternoons, and you were supposed to love me forever.”

“I love you no less for my mistakes.” He managed. It was very low. She gave a watery laugh.

“Oh, Thorin....” She rocked back and forth, biting back whimpers that came with the tears. He could not die without knowing and so she must tell him. “Know: My love for you is greater than the greed of a dragon; you are more precious to me than even starlight, which has been my heart’s greatest desire since its foul inception.” She murmured, and this at its very core was true. Suddenly he choked and she soothed him. There was something she could do, but doing so would being admitting that he was fading. But she loved him too much not to. She raised her voice and it carried on the ice, singing a song in elvish meant to take pain from the dying.

_Lóre, darling, lóre. Let lauca mornië take tye minna i next coiv-;_

“Hush, my love.” She said, and he was consoled. She could see the light leaving his eyes. It felt like she was choking on the words, but she managed.

_Lóre darling, lóre. Tye indóme n- met as mel, lóre darling_

The light was gone, and she choked the last of it out, sending his soul away with the gentlest of words.

_Lóre ehtelë, cait- torne, sina na- your yallume amaurea, let linne-, lóre darling, lóre...._

Finally she threw her head back and screamed, carrying her pain and rage down the mountain and into Dale itself.

___________________________________

 

There was a funeral fit for a king, and why not. With the death of the royal family, Thorin’s cousin Dain had been next in line and he made his first decree to be a funeral fit for the dwarves that they had lost, a triple funeral for Thorin, Kili, and Fili. She did not wail at the ceremony, but she stayed after it had concluded and the flowers had been laid. No, she was the silent widow. She and Thorin had never had the chance to marry, with all the complications that arose from that- but she occasionally touched the courting beads in her hair, knowing that he loved her until the very end. She stayed with the bodies as the court celebrated the retaking of the mountain and their victory over the orcs, sitting by the tombs with her veil moving in the draft. She stayed that night, a lone figure pondering love and what horrors she knew now could come from it, what pain. The company came, one by one, to sit with her in silence. Bilbo decided to go home to the Shire and she did not move. Dain was crowned and she did not move. Gloin’s wife and son came to live in the mountain. She had not moved. Thorin was dead and she had no purpose.

It was in the third month of her vigil that she noticed anything was amiss- she ate little and drank little, but her stomach swelled all the same. Whether she had intended to wake from her dream or not, she did with concern for the new life inside of her. It was Thorin’s of course, but what kind of child would she produce, being as she was? It would not be a contender for the throne because of many complicated dwarvish legal reasons, but she saw danger in its very existence, this hybrid child. She did not want to wake from this dark fog, but she knew that she had to put her traveling cloak on once more. Whatever future there was for this child- _her and Thorin’s child_ \- she had to make alone, with only a memory of love to serve her.

The Beginning

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Parting: Alternate Ending](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16652416) by [Spacewhalewriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spacewhalewriting/pseuds/Spacewhalewriting)




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